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MTEA 


A NOVEL. 


BY 


MAMIE LAMKIN HATCHETT. 


J. W. RANDOLPH & ENGLISH, 
Richmond, Va. 

1884. 


Paper. $i.oo; Cloth, $1.25. 



MTEA 


A NOVEL. 


BY 



MAMIE L A M K I N HATCHETT. 

I) 



J. W. RANDOLPH & ENGLISH, 
Richmond, Va, 

1884. 


Copyright, 1884, 


BY 

MAMIE L. HATCHETT. 


Printed by 

Whittet & Shepperson, 
llichmond, Va, 


Bound by 

Randolph & English, 
Richmond, Ya, 


T O 

MY DEAR MOTHER, 

THIS STORY 

IS 


AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED. 


« 


CONTENTS 


The Boy Hero, 

Page. 

CHAPTER I. 

9 


CHAPTER 11. 


Violet Bank. — A Happy Family, 14 

CHAPTER III. 

In which seyekal Important Characters are Introduced, 19 


Domestic Felicity, . 

CHAPTER IV. 

27 

Lionel, . 

CHAPTER V. 

34 

The Messrs. Sims, . 

CHAPTER VI. 

. . . , . . . 41 


CHAPTER YII. 

An Enjoyable Occasion, ...... 54 

CHAPTER VIII. 


Myra’s First Season, 


63 


VI 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER IX. 

Fenland Hall, . . . . . . . . 75 

CHAPTER X. 

Country Pleasures, 83 

CHAPTER XL 

True Heroism, 92 

CHAPTER XII. 

From the Clasp of Azrael, . . . . . .106 

CHAPTER XIII. 

A Mutual Surprise, . . . . . . .116 

CHAPTER XIV. 

A Thrilling Narrative, . . . . . .123 

CHAPTER XY. 

Lucifer, . . . . . . . . .142 


CHAPTER XYL 

‘‘A Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing.” — Florence. — An Un- 


opened Letter. — Oscar in Trouble. — Rodolphus 
Wooing, 149 

CHAPTER XYII. 

Twilight’s Witching Hour, . . . . . .165 

CHAPTER XYIII. 

A Reconciliation, ....... 167 

CHAPTER XIX. 

“ Serpents Coil IN Rose-thickets,” . . . .178 


CONTENTS. Vll 

CHAPTER XX. 

Eavesdkopfing, and what Came of it, .... 190 

CHAPTER XXL 

Ivy Cottage. — A Dream and its Sequel, . . .196 

CHAPTER XXII. 

A Fatal Rencounter. — Saved from Herself, . . 207 

CHAPTER XXIIL 

The Hew Life, 216 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

A Test of Courage and Fidelity, . . . .226 

CHAPTER XXV. 

A Chapter of Surprises, 


238 


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'^<1 


MYRA. 


CHAPTER 1. 

THE BOY HERO. 

~T~ OOK out for the train when you hear the whistle!” read 

JLJ a lively voice from the window of a flying passenger 
coach ; “ Look out for the train when you hear the whistle 1 ” on 
large placards posted at intervals along the line. 

“Ahem!” remarked the speaker to a fellow-passenger; “a 
queer place this. Instinct teaches as much in our country.” 

A long, shrill whistle! The locomotive gradually slackened 
its speed and a sonorous: “Grand Junction” reverberated through 
the crowded car. 

The passengers gathered up their bundles, and prepared to dis- 
embark. The individual referred to, a slender, graceful and ra- 
ther distinguished-looking young man, who had not yet attained 
his twenty-sixth birthday, lifted his young wife, a fragile invalid, 
the hectic bloom of whose cheek left no doubt as to her fatal mal- 
ady, and carrying her in his arms, elbowed his way through the 
crowd, followed by a black nurse with a three-year-old child, 
whose baby face need only to be compared with that of the beauti- 
ful mother to determine its parentage. 

It was at a grand central depot, the junction of a number of 
railroads, and the trains constantly coming and going kept up a 
perpetual hubbub and confusion. Failing to make connection, 
and necessarily detained here for several hours, the attentive hus- 
band, making a temporary couch of shawls, cloaks, and such arti- 
cles as circumstances rendered available, laid his suffering wife 
tenderly upon it. Seeing her comfortably settled, he walked 
about the room to stretch his limbs, cramped with long sitting. 
To add to the noise and disorder, a circus company presently ar- 


10 


MYEA. 


rived, with menagerie and other concomitants. Boys huzzaed, 
men laughed loudly and swore coarsely. The acrobats were inso- 
lent and frontless ; the women flirted boldly, and swaggering in- 
ebriates thrust themselves into the ladies’ reception-room. 

The young man, with quickening step, paced the room rest- 
lessly, as though by that means to give vent to his displeasure 
and disgust. He consulted his watch from time to time, with 
ever and anon an anxious glance toward the motionless form on 
the sofa. 

“Half-past twelve!” he muttered aloud; “two hours yet!” im- 
patiently; and then to himself :“ Grand Junction! Grand Junc- 
tion! I have traveled a bit in my time; but of all the places, of 
all the crowds in which I have ever yet found myself, this is the 
foulest! Gi’and Junction! — a Babel! — a Yanity Fair! Grand 
Junction !” looking contemptuously about him; “a grand place? 
truly! a grand set of rowdies and whiskey drinkers!” 

A feeble voice called: “Bobert!” and the soliloquy was cut 
short. 

He obeyed the summons with alacrity; but before he could 
reach her side, she was seized with a flt of coughing, so exhaust- 
ing in its violence that the delicate form swayed as a leaf in the 
tempest. The attack was longer and more distressing than usual, 
and the invalid sank back upon her pillow faint and lifeless. The 
alarmed husband called to the nurse to fetch restoratives, who, 
seating the child upon a divan, hastened to his assistance. It was 
some minutes ere their combined efforts could revive the sufferer. 
They were at last rewarded, as the dark eyes opened slowly. 

“Bobert!” she said, scarcely above a whisper, “where is our 
baby?” 

The father started up and ran his eyes around the apartment. 
In his anxiety for the wife, he had lost sight of the not less dear 
and only child. To his surprise and dismay, she was not in sight. 
He made diligent search for her among the crowd, but without 
success. A wild fear took possession of him, and strong man as 
he was, he tottered and grew dizzy with suspense and apprehen- 
sion. A woman’s scream arrested his attention. In a frenzy of 
grief and forebodings, Bobert Marston rushed to the door just in 
time to see his lost darling snatched from the track, where in an- 
other moment she must have been a mangled corse, by a noble- 


THE BOY HERO. 


11 


looking black-haired youth whom he had several times noticed 
standing apart from the promiscuous multitude. 

The little fugitive, having no one to look after her, bewilder- 
ed by the noise and novelty of the scene, had toddled out of the 
room, and attracted by the sparks emitted from the smoke-stack, 
had made her way directly in front of the steaming engine, 
where, holding out her dimpled hands to catch the bright parti- 
cles, she laughed gleefully. 

“ Look ! papa, stars ! I catch ’ em ! ” she had cried in childish 
ecstasy. 

This outburst had drawn the attention of the by-standers, who, 
until then, had been too intent upon other things to notice the 
little runaway. Struck with consternation, they had looked on with 
stupid horror. One wmman screamed and swooned at the sick- 
ening spectacle, and it was only the reckless daring of a brave 
and chivalrous lad that had saved her from a horrible death. 

Vociferous shouts now break from applauding spectators; but 
the young hero, heedless of them all, lifts the affrighted innocent 
in his arms and fights his way through an admiring throng. 
The child, finding herself in a stranger’s arms, terrified by the tu- 
mult, wails piteously and refuses to be pacified. The little nerv- 
ous frame quivers with emotion, as, shrinking from the strange 
faces that meet her eyes on every hand, she nestles more closely 
to her gallant deliverer. The agonized father, with brimming 
eyes, extends his arms in mute gratitude; but waving him back 
gently, the youth pushes on, making no pause, but marching 
straight to the weeping mother, (anxiety and excitement having 
inspired her with supernatural strength) gives the priceless trea- 
sure into her frantic clasp. The parent, in hysterical sobs, finds 
her words to have lost, for once, their magic. The lad comes 
again to the rescue. 

“Hush! little one;” he says soothingly; “There now, don’t 
cry any more: don’t you see how sorry it makes poor mamma? 
Don’t cry any more, and I’ll give you something pretty.” 

He looks about for means of redeeming this rash promise, but 
can find nothing attractive about the bare walls or plain furni- 
ture of the dingy room. He ransacks his pockets — a penknife, a 
ball of twine, a lead pencil and two fish-hooks are the result of 
the search. A shade of despair settles for a moment upon the 


12 


MTKA. 


clear, broad brow. Suddenly he remembers something else. He 
has but one trifle about him, a singular one, and not a very suita- 
ble ornament for a boy of his age. But let not sages carp at 
youthful caprice; boys are singular things, school boys especially, 
and this one in particular. He had noticed it in a jeweler’s shop; 
it had pleased, at the time, his fancy, which being gratified, he 
had scarcely given it a thought since that hour. No ordinary 
youth is this young Apollo: he has ever been of a romantic disposi- 
tion, and feeds his vivid imagination upon dreams of high ex- 
ploits in otlier climes, inspired by tales of adventure and books 
of travel, which he prefers above all other companions. 

A tiny gold dagger is detached from the chain from which it 
depended and placed in the chubby hands. 

What child so young, especially of the weaker sex, as not to 
distinguish wmrds of tender pleading from those of harshness and 
reproof? Attracted by tlie bauble and the movements of the 
speaker, slie ceases her sobs and attends to his words. 

A little more coaxing, and Sir Knight feels amply repaid in see- 
ing the distorted face of a moment before suflused wdth smiles, 
as, with naive expectancy, she puts up her full red lips for a kiss; 
that being the only way suggested to lier infantile mind, by 
which to express her pleasure and satisfaction. A look of tri- 
umph for a moment lights up his handsome countenance, succeeded 
by another — not painful, but regretful — as he remarks something 
indescribably fascinating in the large, earnest, lustrous orbs up- 
turned to his, their heavy fringes wet with recent tears, sparkling 
like rain-drops in April sunlight. 

But his time is up ! the moment has come when he must tear 
himself from those of whom he would fain know more. He has 
traveled with them several days, observing, though unobserved. 
The distingue air of the youthful couple, the sufferings of the 
wife, the anxiety of the husband and beauty of the infant daugh- 
ter have touched his boyish heart, excited curiosity, and aroused 
his sympathy. Since accident has enabled him to render them so 
signal a service, he would claim his reward in knowing at least 
the name of those who liave awakened within him so strange an 
interest ; but there is no time for thought or questions. Here, 
it appears, they are to separate : their routes lie, perchance, in op- 
posite directions ; he, southward bound ; they, he knows not whither. 


THE BOY HERO. 


13 


The last whistle warns liim that he is in danger of being left. He 
makes a hasty movement to retire. The father, too full to speak, 
presses his hand in silence; the mother, with streaming eyes, 
looks the thanks she cannot utter. With a final glance at the 
innocent author of all the trouble, nimble as a chamois, he 
bounds aw'ay and leaps up the platform as the train is moving off. 

Those of the passengers who witnessed the occurrence cast to- 
ward him admiring glances. They are all lost on the rapt 
dreamer as he sits gazing pensively from his window, seeing and 
yet not seeing the ever shifting landscape. This day forms an 
epoch in his existence — he has had an adventure. He has done 
a noble deed, has protected the helpless and innocent, has saved 
a young life, and brought joy to two anguished hearts. He feels 
so brave and strong and buoyant in his stainless youth ! His be- 
ing is alive with sensations such as he has never known; his soul 
is astir; a childish voice, a soft, a dulcet tone echoes, like music, 
through his heart; while on fancy’s horizon dawns a small fair 
face, the star of destiny! Something, an invisible some- 
thing, a voiceless thing, speaks to him, changing tlie drift of his 
wild imaginings. The future spreads before him boundless, bril- 
liant, glorious! His heart swells and throbs with noble impulses. 
The hours roll unheeded by, in anticipations of lofty undertakings 
and grand achievements, beyond which are visioned Edens with 
air all fragrance, sounds all music, and life all sunshine; fairy 
palaces, illumined by one presence, an embodiment of grace and 
beauty, with a voice as soft as the fall of fountains, eyes that bor- 
row their lustre from on high, hair a plexus of golden light, 
cheeks that would shame a sea-shell, and lips like a coral rose- 
bud fresh with matin dews. Such is youthful extravagance ! 

The laboring engine halts — his Paradise dissolves into nothing- 
ness; his castles float away in bits of airy cloud ; the vision is dis- 
pelled, and dull reality jars upon his poetic soul. 


14 


MYRA. 


CHAPTEK 11. 

VIOLET BANK.— A HAPPY FAMILY. 

S , one of the eastern counties of Virginia, was situ- 
ated the gay and picturesque village of B , nestling in 

a pretty vale formed by a cluster of majestic hills, their emerald 
crowns dappled in the distance. Though having no size to boast 
of, its business facilities, neighboring springs, salubrious climate, 
and pleasing surroundings rendered it a place of some importance 
and of frequent resort. 

See it in spring-time, — bedecked in gala gems and freshening 
drapery ! — with its fragrant gardens, verdant meads and flowery 
knolls bespread with pearly daisies, golden butter-cups and myriads 
of feathery blossoms; the hills, with their versicolored tiara of bud- 
ding beauties, fanned by ambrosial zephyrs. 

See it in summer! wdth its sylvan shades, waving flelds, blush- 
ing sunsets and restful calm. 

See it in autumn, — in Nature’s burial robes I — with its regal man- 
tles of crimson and purple and gold and amber, royally beautiful in 
its winding-sheet; while the heavenly arch of paler azure shines 
alien from afar, and bracing breezes and sighing gales chant a 
solemn requiem. 

See it in winter 1 clad in white and dazzling raiment, its spires 
and cupolas glistening in the frosty air, ’neath a gray and lower- 
ing sky. 

The village proper stood upon a gentle eminence, at whose base 
rushed a noisy little river, never stopping to relate its mystic story, 
threading its way through smiling meadows, and spanned by a 
rustic bridge, on either side of which grew creamy laurels, gaudy 
honey-suckles, ferns, dafibdils and water lilies, the stream em- 
bowered by tangled vines, interlacing the leafy canopy. Opulence, 
enterprise and intelligence characterized the inhabitants, and as 
the rendezvous of a wealthy and pleasure-loving community, it 
was often the scene of festivity. 

From the river to the north sloped far stretching fields in the 


VIOLET BAILK. A HAPPY FAMILY. 


15 


highest state of cultivation, and at the end of another half mile 
there suddenly rose, in abrupt contiguity with the road-side, a per- 
pendicular steep, upon the apex of which stood a superb stone man- 
sion, princely and imposing with its turrets, oriels, breezy verandas 
and ornamental balustrade. The height was gracefully rounded by 
three successive terraces, neither tree nor shrub being permitted 
to break the short, smootli sward, intermixed with tufts of modest 
violets ; the ascent made by broad granite steps so exquisitely 
fitted into the green precipice as to resemble the work of nature 
rather than of man. The slope at the rear was more gradual, the 
out-buildings forming a semicircle about the declivity ; the south 
fianked by a large garden, the pride of the aged* gardener, wliose 
only care was to trim and keep it; the north by a shady park, 
where the summer sunlight played at “hide and seek” among 
the shadows, impenetrable to the tenderer glances of bashful 
Luna. 

The interior, in consonance with the surroundings, everywhere 
bespoke means and culture; the walls, hung with select paintings, 
softly tinted in harmony with the rich carpets, elaborate hang- 
ings and sumptuous furniture; the jdrawing-room especially [was 
a marvel of taste and elegance, opening into the conservatory, 
whose beauteous inmates mingled their perfumed sighs, making 
each stirring breath’ a censer upon which to send their humble 
offerings to the heaven which bestowed them. 

The father of the present owner had, in early youth, been at great 
trouble and expense in planning and erecting the noble pile — and 
a noble pile it was — for years the admiration and envy of the 
surrounding country. He had bequeathed it to his only surviving 
son with a request that he would, on no account, ever allow it 
to pass into other hands than those of the family; but that what- 
ever the vicissitudes of fortune or wherever his wandering feet 
might tend, he would still retain his patrimony. Hence, though 
duty had forced him to desert it for a brief while, he had now re- 
turned to the home of his boyhood, declaring that he would never 
leave it more, but would die in the halls which had known his first 
infant breath. 

Hardly a mile from B , they enjoyed the advantages with- 

out the din and bustle of the station, and the ease and system, — so 
agreeable to the visitor, — that regulated the Violet Bank household, 


16 


MYRA. 


was owing, in a great measure, to the fact that many of the ser- 
vants formerly belonging to the Marston estate had never left the 
plantation upon which they had been born and reared, but still 
served their quondam owner faithfully and well. Warmly attached 
to “ Marster,” they looked to him for protection and advice with 
the contidenee and reverence of days ante helium. Among these 
was a venerable Ethiopian, known as “Aunt Jemima.” She had 
nursed Mrs. Marston when an infant, had officiated as maid later, 
and since that lady’s marriage had superintended the establish- 
ment in her absence. She now supervised the younger domestics, 
manifesting the liveliest interest in the remotest scion of what she 
termed “ her family,” considering herself, in fact, quite one of them. 

You would hardly recognize in the stout, jocular gentleman — 
fleshy almost to obesity, in the prime of strength and vigor — the 
slender, beardless young man introduced in the opening chapter;, 
neither in the amiable, pink-cheeked matron, the invalid wife; nor 
in the graceful, vivacious little maid, just merging into woman- 
hood, the chubby three-year-old whose juvenile acquisitiveness 
occasioned the scene we have attempted to describe. Yet, strange 
as it may appear, they are the same. It has been more than ten 
years since that eventful day, and many and important changes 
have been wrought in the interval. Time has brought on its 
wings maturity to the one, healing to the other, development to 
the child. It being with the hope of restoring the sufferer that 
the young husband had left his beautiful home, they had visited 
various localities esteemed beneficial in cases of pulmonary afiec- 
tions, and finally, three years in the Bermudas had effected a cure, 
seemingly permanent. 

Back among the friends and companions of his youth, blessed 
with health and prosperity, his treasures spared to him, his large 
heart overflowing with love and gratitude, the husband and father 
strove to make some return to a beneficent Providence in kind- 
ness and goodwill toward his fellowmen. Thackeray very aptly 
compares the world to a looking-glass, since it gives back to every 
man the reflection of his own face: “Frown at it, and it will in 
turn look sourly upon you ; laugh at it and _with it, and it is a 
jolly, kind companion.” Robert Marston laughed with the world, 
and the world laughed with him. Nor was Myra, sole heir to 
his name and wealth, unworthy of her parentage. With the 


VIOLET BANK. A HAPPY FAMILY. 


IT 


spirit, humor and sparkling wit of the father, the winning gentle- 
ness of the mother, she w'^as a child of whom they were at once 
fond and proud. If she had faults, she had virtues as well; if 
quick to resent, she was even quicker to forgive; and fits of anger, 
provided contrition follows immediately in their w^ake, are like 
sea breezes, that leave the waves more svreetly calm for the 
momentary agitation. To mild persuasion, facile as a willow 
bough; to compulsion, steel; with an innate love of truth and 
right and a proportionate detestation of hypocrisy; genial with 
those she liked, indifferent to those in whom she felt no especial 
interest, haughty toward those she distrusted; at times sportively 
gay, at others silent and meditative, she was a study. Never 
crossed, seldom reproved, an ordinary nature might have been 
spoiled ; but to abuse affectionate indulgence, by allowing the 
native beauty of her character to be marred thereby, would have 
been to confess a weak brain and a shallow soul. Having few 
companions of her own age, she learned to enjoy the society of 
her elders — to feel as they felt, to think as they thought, to talk 
as they talked ; and so rapid was her progress, and so remarkable 
the avidity with which she devoured multifarious knowledge, that 
her teachers were kept in a state of wonder as to the next talent 
to be discovered. 

Of all the visitors who frequented the house, Lionel Harrison^ 
a quiet, grave man, nearer her father’s age than her owm, was 
Myra’s acknowledged favorite. He had been intimate with the 
former when at college, and their friendship had only strength- 
ened, with time. She was too young at the time of their removal 
to remember her former residence at Violet Bank, but he was 
anything but a stranger. Held in high esteem by her parents, 
his name had been a household word from her earliest recollec- 
tion, and she had relics of toys and sundry trinkets of which he 
had been the donor. When presented to him on their return, he 
had met her with easy dignity, and if he felt pleasure, it 
was expressed in his face rather than in words. Without 
show of surprise, or even an attempt at a compliment (which 
would have been to lower himself in her estimation, and ren- 
der her shy and suspicious of him) after looking at her long 
and earnestly, he had released her hand in the most natural way, 
with the brief observation : That she was some inches taller than 
when he had last seen her.” 


18 


MYRA. 


He too was a study. Calm and self-collected as he seemed, 
you felt that he was capable of intense feeling, tliat his breast 
was the home of powerful emotions. Moral fortitude was stamped 
upon the high, broad brow, and the clear light of his gray eye re- 
flected a soul as good as it was brave. An accomplished scholar, 
his manners pleasing and unaflected, with the kindest of hearts, 
though not noisily flattered, he was known and beloved in every 
circle. A student of the law, his mental calibre was such that he 
might have been eminent in his profession, but that, through 
modesty, or from some other cause, he appeared to shun rather than 
oourt distinction. Temperate and energetic, he might have been 
a rich man, had he not been too sensitive to the cries of poverty 
or distress, too lavish of his bounty to amass wealth. He, like 
his friend, was the last of his race, with the exception of his aged 
mother to whom Myra was much attached. Their home, in the 
suburbs of B , was a pretty villa, as unpretending as them- 

selves, and many of his leisure evenings were passed at Yiolet 
Bank, where he was received without ceremony and where a 
warm welcome always awaited him. Being connected by no ties 
of kinship and averse to the punctilious ‘‘Mr.,” which would have 
erected between them an insurmountable barrier, it was a whim 
of his to have her call him simply: “Lionel.” This informal ad- 
dress, in ignoring the difference of ages, put them on familiar 
footing and an unreserved confidence grew in time to exist be- 
tween this oddly-matched pair. With others he was often taciturn ; 
with her he was the most entertaining of companions. To him 
she confided her imaginary troubles, finding him ever attentive and 
sympathetic. Was there a hard lesson or a subject with which 
her untutored brain could not grapple, he brought order out of 
chaos, and in his own quiet, peculiar way pointed out new beauties, 
opening fresh fields to her omnivorous mind. 

If Myra loved her friends and enjoyed their companionship? 
there were moments when she liked her own thoughts better. 
Given to self-communion, there were hours when she would sit 
apart, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, though of what she was 
thinking, her countenance furnished no clew. These fitful moods 
troubled the tender mother; the discerning father saw in them 
something more than word or look expressed; he recognized in 
them heaven’s divinest gift. Would it expand, unfold itself? 


SEVERAL CHARACTERS INTRODUCED. 


19 


Time and circumstances must decide. (There is an analogy be- 
tween the intellectual and physical organizations, — between the 
highest and lowest orders of creation, between the animate and 
inanimate, between man and vegetable, — each, according to its 
nature, must be cultivated, exercised, burnished or refined. The 
gem, until polished, is lustreless; the animal must be trained to 
bring out its superior qualities; the tree must be pruned, nourished, 
ere it yields its choicest fruits; and the purer, sweeter essences of 
the plant are imperceptible save to those who know the secret art by 
which to extract them.) He beheld in them a profound nature 
and a thoughtful spirit, understanding beyond her years, a spark 
of that immortal fire which, though it might never burst to flame, 
was there nevertheless, — a bright though smoldering spark, and 
were she the daughter of some humble artisan, with no claim to 
position but personal merit and no means for attaining it but by 
her own labor, zeal and resolution, would earn for her name a 
place among those of Nature’s favored children. 


CHAPTER III. 

IN WHICH SEVERAL IMPORTANT CHARACTERS ARE INTRO- 
DUCED. 

>r 

T he last two years of Myra’s school life were passed at Hey- 
wood Institute, a deservedly celebrated institution among 
the magnificent mountains of her own State, where her mother 
had received her education, and by whom — as with every true 
alumnus — its classic halls were still held in affectionate remem- 
brance. Here the studious habits which had characterized the 
child won for her what she so conscientiously labored to merit — 
the respect and esteem of her teachers. 

Among these was one for whom she felt more than regard. 
She was one of those brisk, bright little women with ever a kind 
word and loving smile for those around her, — like a ray of light, 
escaped from the ethereal world, to illumine with its timid beam 
life’s murky way, — there was about her an irresistible, a magnetic 
charm that attracted and attached to herself all who knew her. 
She was at once instructress, sister, friend, or whatsoever else duty 


20 


MYRA. 


demanded or a warm heart dictated. In a word, to know her was 
to love her, and ‘‘dear little Miss Ray” was the receptacle of all 
the hopes, donbts, and disappointments of her little circle of 
friends and admirers. Callous indeed the heart she could not 
reach; restive the spirit she could not subdue. To disobey Miss 
Ray was a crime; to be reproved by her, a disgrace. Even the 
most insurgent of her classes acknowledged and yielded to the 
mysterious power; they could not decline tlie proffered help so 
kindly extended; and tliose deemed incorrigible by others found 
anger and perversity dissolve beneath her smile like frozen rills in 
May sunshine. But for the crow-feet around the soft brown 
eyes, you would have taken her to be much younger than she 
was; and while a quiet content signalized her life, there was 
something so inexpressibly sad in the small Hellenic face when 
at rest, that you could but feel that she had been loved and ap- 
preciated in youth, and that some deep, immitigable sorrow had 
driven her from a societ}^ she was so fitted to adorn, and induced 
her to inflict upon herself liardship and toil, in order that she 
might promote tlie happiness and success of others. 

Myra often observed her in these unguarded moments, and 
formed many conjectures as to the nature of her affliction. 

She might have been five and forty; had she been sixty, she 
would have been no more an “old maid” than at eighteen. No 
one would think of insulting that noble, unselfish woman with 
the opprobrious epithet; and since several of the above men- 
tioned class are destined to figure in our story, it would be well 
to define the term, or rather, to give our own signification of it. 

Some persons fall into the erroneous opinion, that simply be- 
cause a lady has passed the stated age at which tlie generality of 
women marry, she is, of course, one of these abominable crea- 
tures, and must be snubbed and ill-treated accordingly. This is 
a mistake, and shows an absence of thought and feeling. Some 
of the purest and best chnracters the world has ever known w^ere 
those who lived a life celibacy, and because they had no other 
claims upon their time and attention, had a better opportunity for 
administering to the comfort and advancement of others. If a 
woman, for some reason best known to herself, chooses to go 
through life alone, if she thinks thus to accomplish some higher, 
nobler end, it is nobody’s affair but her own. It concerns no one 


SEVERAL CHARACTERS INTRODUCED. 


21 


but lierself, and the world should accept the fact and be satisfied; 
it has no right to stare at or ridicule her. 

What / understand by an “old maid,” is a person who very 
much resembles a certain animal of the feline species, her claws 
incased in velvet, ready, upon the slightest provocation, to turn 
and rend you. Nor is she confined to the female sex alone — far 
from it; neither has age aught to do with the character; married 
or single, she is the same at ten or eighty. She is blessed witli 
an insatiable curiosity, and possesses the tact for insinuating her- 
self into the confidence of all with whom she is thrown ; like 
Proteus, she has the power of adjusting her outward semblance to 
circumstances, but is wise — only in her own conceit — and less cau- 
tious in her predictions. She feeds on slander, and greater the 
calumny, more dainty the morsel. If she is capable of affection, 
it is lavished on a cat or lap-dog, and she has a mania for storing 
away and guarding with jealous care all the odds and ends tliat 
chance to fall in her way, her attention being turned to the rninoi’ 
interests of life while higher achievements are left unattempted. 
Brainless and soulless herself, she would bring others to her level; 
and though, through fear, courteously treated, is regarded with 
secret horror and distrust by her neighbors. And her innocent 
victims! where are they? The weaker spirits faint, languish, die! 
(and those who kill by slow torture are no less murderers than the 
malignant assassin) others, like the grass of the Ganges, must 
be trampled upon to draw forth the more pungent spices of the 
soul. Such an one rises superior to his foe. To him, each piti- 
less dart is a potent elixir, transmuting to gold the baser metals 
of his nature; it buoys rather than depresses, inflames rather than 
extinguishes. Something urges him on — it comes in the stillness 
of midnight, speaks in the undulations of silence: “To him that 
overcometh will I give a crown — not of laurels (perishable), but 
of light (immortal).” His brain whirls, his pulses beat quick and 
warm, his heart swells and ebbs like the frothing waves of a tem- 
pestuous sea — outw^ardly calm, the conflict within is maddening! 
Crushed, bruised, mangled! in a transport of contending emo- 
tions, he raises his bleeding form, distends his trailing wings, and, 
with conscience for his Mentor, virtue for his shield — like the 
eagle — soars aloft, leaving the cringing little hawk to its petty 
prey. He has fought a good fight, has gained a noble victory. 


22 


MYEA. 


who from star-lit heights can smile down upon tlie offender and 
conscientiously say: ‘‘My enemy I I thank you, for you have 
made me what I am.” 

For those who slay in anger or resentment there is a punish- 
ment; but these more than murderers! who shall pronounce their 
doom? These deadliest adversaries (save one, whose servants 
they are) of the human race ! who can too loudly condemn them ? 

All cowardly, weak-minded men come under this caption — such 
as never miss an opportunity for doing their fellow an ill turn 
when sure of escaping detection, and who, if charged with a fault, 
too timorous either to confess or resent it, stick their fists in their 
eyes and blubber, like the great babies that they are. They should 
be rigged in skirts and aprons, and made to “wing the tedious- 
wasting day” in the intellectual pastime of making pastry or bed 
quilts as the most certain way of keeping them out of mischief. 
If a majority of mankind would spend only half the time in self- 
elevation that they devote to aspersing others, what an Eden our 
earth would be! 

So much for the “old maid.” And now to our story. 

We were speaking of Miss Ray. Myra had always felt a 
peculiar interest in and sympathy for her, but it was not until 
her last term that their mutual liking had ripened into a warm 
and fast friendship. It was not until she had been prostrated by 
a severe, though short illness (at a time when, her mother being 
herself quite sick, they had kept it from her, fearing to cause her 
unnecessary alarm), through which she had watched her so un- 
wearyingly and nursed her so tenderly, that, from that time, each 
had been to the other doubly dear. 

With the girls she was universally popular. (A young lady 
with an ancestry and a rich father would hardly be else at a 
fashionable boarding-school. Her two room-mates, Henrietta 
Bryant and Florence Stilibnry, she fondly loved; and if others 
thought her proud or indifferent, it was excusable in one of her 
age and position.) A favorite with the masters, courted by the 
pupils, Myra believed her happiness as nearly perfect as it could 
be away from the dear ones at home. 

They were a charming and interesting coterie, these three 
friends. Henrietta, like Myra, Yirginian in blood and birth — and 
a loyal daughter — with hair like the raven’s wing, laughing black 


SEVERAL CHARACTERS INTRODUCED. 23> 

eyes and cheeks whose bloom vied with the rose ; artless as a 
child, merry as the da}^, the ringleader in mischief and admiration 
of her band, who looked upon her as a miracle of wdt and good- 
nature. Florence, Kentucky born, fair and sylph-like ; and wliile 
it was confidentially whispered that her sole fortune was the 
beauty of which nature had been unsparing, her father being only 
a struggling merchant in Lexington (her home), the extravagance 
of her dress and the number and costliness of the presents slie 
was constantly making her bosom friends (of whom she had, 
in the school, not to mention those elsewhere, not less than a 
dozen, although she assured Myra that she loved “her little 
chum” better than all the rest together) seemed to contradict the 
insinuation. Myra, something between; “a happy medium,” as 
the former insisted. Her features delicate and regular, if not so 
striking as those of her companions, her physiognomy showed 
more character than either. A wealth of glossy chestnut curls 
rippled over a smooth, fair brow, beneath which beamed eyes of 
deepest hazel, whose heavy fringes swept cheeks that would have 
been pale but for the flitting color that came and went with ex- 
citement or emotion, and when the coral lips parted in a smile, 
they revealed teeth lovelier still, her face sparkling with mischief 
and dimpling with sweetness. 

Strange that we should choose for our intimates (not only in 
school days, but in after life) those dissimilar in person and dis- 
position. And not strange either, since, — contrary creatures that 
we are ! — owing to this longing for the unattainable, we are apt 
to admire those totally unlike ourselves. It was wonderful, the 
concord of these contrasting spirits. Ko partiality was allowed be- 
tween them, and was there an unkind thought or a jealous twinge, 
it was unsuspected, being pent in the breast in which it rankled; 
like parts in music, each according tone made the diapason 
grander. 

But Myra, favored as she was, was often left companionless — 
Henrietta and her confederates busy in projecting or executing 
some harmless prank, and Florence, to preserve her popularity, 
being compelled to devote much of her time to her numberless 
“friends.” Deprived of the society of her comrades, she pre- 
ferred solitude. There was in the grounds an artificial lake near 
which grew a gnarled and giant oak, its mossy roots forming a 


24 : 


MYRA. 


rustic divan and ever with her a favorite nook. An ardent wor- 
shipper of Nature, she loved her best in her serenest moods; and 
on Saturdays and fine days, exercises over, armed with sketch- 
book and pencil, she would pass beneath its shade many of her 
leisure hours. But I am afraid her mind was not always upon 
her sketch-book. She would sometimes fall into a profound and 
all-absorbing reverie, lier chain of thought unbroken by the tran- 
quil waters at her feet, until, gliding unconsciously down its 
magic stream, an ideal future, in which every other vision con- 
centered in one, would open upon her. 

‘‘What vision?” you ask. A very ill defined, very shadowy vi- 
sion; but ond most pleasing to herself. It is a tall, graceful fig- 
ure that stands before her, “hero” traced in every lineament; the 
voice, though deep, is remarkably musical, and it is in accents of 
tenderness that he addresses her. For an instant slie sees him as 
plainly as did Prince Habib the beautiful Dorathil-goase when she 
descended upon him in his sequestered vale. She raises her eyes 
to get a better view; the spell is broken; the form vanishes. 

Half-formed conjectures of this unknown hero at this period 
often occupied her mind. They recalled an event which, looking 
back through twelve eventful years, seemed to mark the begin- 
ning of her existence. She had no remembrance of anything 
prior to it, and so faint, so confused, was the impression left upon 
her infantine memory, that she was puzzled to know whether she 
recollected or imagined it. In moments like these there ever 
awoke within her an ineffable admiration for the young Hercules 
who had so nobly thrust his own life between her and eternity 
and stayed the hand of the destroying angel. How rare and 
grand a tiling was true bravery! and how she longed to thank 
him in person for the life service he had rendered her 1 It sounded 
like a delightful fairy tale of which she never tired. There was a 
fascination in the very mystery which enveloped it; she was sure 
it was the opening of some enchanting romance of which time 
would write the denouement. She believed that they would some 
day meet, and resolved to keep the little souvenir as a sign of re- 
cognition between them. 

Ah, yes ! I see that curling lip and elevated brow. I hear dis- 
tinctly the words, “ Maudlin 1 Quixotic I ” I see you quite plainly, 
reader. (I trust you are not an “old maid!”) If you chance to 


SEVERAL CHARACTERS INTRODUCED. 


25 


be an imaginative young miss, you will think, doubtless, that you 
would like to be the heroine of a novel. Well! you might be, 
every life is a romance if the truth were known. If a school- 
boy, you will laugh scornfully, with the comment: “What silly 
things these girls are 1 ” If a discreet “ mamma,” you will uncon- 
sciously throw a loving and somewhat anxious glance toward your 
Dwm Ada or Gertrude, and hope in your heart that your girls will 
be sensible and not romantic. But, oli! there is grandma, — dear, 
good, wuse, patient, prim prudent grandma! — her white forehead 
is wrinkled with something very like a frown as she looks suspi. 
ciously at Jennie, wdio has just celebrated her fifteenth natal day, 
and who is never allowed to sleep under an open window or 
damp her slippers with the evening dew, lest the “dear child” 
should catch cold. She sits just now demurely at her side, and 
suffers herself to be -instructed in certain obsolete embroidery 
stitches, not that she cares anything about learning the stitches, 
but fears to hurt grandma's feelings. Yes; grandma reads dis- 
approvingly. She adjusts her cap, pushes up her spectacles, and 
looks askance at Jennie. She (grandma) is sure that the miasma 
about all still water would bring on fever and a number of dread- 
ful diseases, and sincerely trusts that “her child” will never be 
guilty of anything so imprudent. Then there is the cynical 
bachelor, whose life some youthful “disappointment” has embit- 
tered, and who, in consequence, pronounces all women “shallow, 
whimsical, and deceitful.” And again, the harassed and phleg- 
matic business man (if such deign to peruse our simple story) in 
whose disposition worldly cares and conjugal infelicity have left 
no trace of sentimentality, thinks this, I dare say, excessively 
juvenile, is quite disgusted. 

My lofty, carping friend, despise her not. Cupid has a shaft 
for all. 

Myra was ambitious in those days; no task was too long, no 
subject too abstruse. One calm, cloudless afternoon, when she 
had been for some time in her accustomed retreat, absorbed in 
thought, the sketch-book was finally laid aside. White, glassy 
pebbles lay thick around her. She commenced picking them up 
mechanically one by one, and casting them into the smooth lake- 
let, watched them dreamily. Each created a gentle ripple, and 
the little wave, thus put in motion, continued to undulate, in- 


3 


26 


MYEA. 


creasing in size and force with each successive curl until broken 
by the opposite shore. 

“So with our words and deeds,” she mused, “ except that in eter- 
nity there are no obstructing brinks.” 

The bare utterance of this one sentence gave birth to a thou- 
sand wild, inexpressible longings. Her soul kindled, her cheeks 
aglow, brilliant but imperfect ideas set her brain in strange com- 
motion. Pressing her hand against her heart, as was her wont 
when agitated : “"Oh ! that I might one day accomplish something 
great and noble! ” was her thought. “Would that I might cast 
at least one pebble into the ‘shoreless ocean,’ where the tiny wave 
might flow on and on, a living monument to my memory!” 

Myra! Myra! foster not that viper. Ambition. Aspire to bo 
good, but never to be great. 

Her home letters were but slightly varied in matter or diction — 
loving regrets at her absence, how they longed for her return, a 
few news items, after which, a page or two of mild but salutary 
advice. The closing paragraph might rim perhaps as follows: 

“ Lionel was over last evening (he always enquires after you) 
and sends love.” 

The term was nearing its close when one of these semi-weekly 
billets brought from her mother the fallowing: 

“We have a new neighbor at Cedar Grove; The family, con- 
sisting of a man, his wife and two sons; namely, Hodolphus and 
Henry, arrived about a week since. Their cognomen is ‘Sims.’ 
They are Canadians I think, and reputed to be immensely wealthy, 
although, for my part, I entertain doubts as to whether the old 
gentleman is such a ‘Croesus’ as Madam Rumor would have us 
believe. It is gratifying, however, to see the windows open and 
signs of life about the place once more, it having been without 
an occupant since the death of old Mr. Thomson, last autumn, 
/have seen them only once, but the servants bring amusing re- 
ports of ‘them furriners’. Your father and I called yesterday; 
they are rather singular, but being so near, hope, upon further 
acquaintance, they may prove agreeable.” 


DOMESTIC FELICITY. 


27 


CHAPTER lY. 

DOMESTIC FELICITY. 

I T was a sultry June morning; the much dreaded examination, 
that formidable river of Test, was at last got over; the long 
anticipated commencement was a thing of the past; regretful 
farewells had been wrung from tender hearts; Hey wood was be- 
hind, the world before her. A nervous lassitude had succeeded 
the late excitement, and the emancipated student, wedged in be- 
tween her mother on the one hand and her “parcels” on the 
other, found the suffocating air of the close car particularly op- 
pressive and enervating. The incessant monotonous noise of the 
flying locomotive rendering conversation tiresome, after several 
unsatisfactory attempts, she left off talking altogether and allowed 
herself to be preyed upon by a variety of emotions. 

She was delighted at the idea of going home, yet as her thoughts 
went back to the scenes she had so lately quitted, when she re- 
membered those who had grown to be so near to her and to 
whom she had bid farewell, perhaps for ever, she fell into a mor- 
alizing mood, and began to consider that there was no happiness 
so perfect that it must not be purchased with a pang and that the 
sweets of life must be tinctured with the bitter. 

But sad as these reflections made her, it is not in youth to be 
long depressed. There is something exhilarating in the bare con- 
sciousness of existence, something inspiriting in the realization that 
we are about to enter the “ universal theatre,” to take our feeble parts 
in the great drama, to cast our tickets in the delusive lottery with 
the blissful uncertainty as to what, in the final distribution, our 
recompense will be. The pain of being separated from her chums 
was partially assuaged by the prospect of a near meeting. She 
had never known a sister’s love, but she believed herself held by 
these two as such and gave in return a sister’s due — the sincere 
abiding affection of an intense nature — an affection that scorned 
doubt and could overlook every fault in its object. Her parents 
were prepared to like those of whom they had had such flattering 
representations, and seconded her petitions for an early visit. 


28 


MYEA. 


Florence had signified her intention of not returning home before 
the winter, having friends and relatives in the state whom she 
proposed honoring with her company during the summer and 
autumn. She promised to visit Violet Bank in the interval, and 
with this, and repeated and solemn assurances of a frequent cor- 
respondence and similar pledges from Henrietta, Myra was forced 
to be content. 

Pleasant reminiscences and bright anticipations filled her mind, 
until her attention being called to the beauty of the region though 
which they were passing, admiration took precedence of every 
other feeling and held her as in a spell while her artist eyes feast- 
ed upon the boundless cosmorama before her. Mountains, val- 
leys, hills and meadows chased each other in hot pursuit ; yonder 
stretched a distant chain, its purple peaks bathed in heaven’s 
blue; there a limpid stream, leveling in its way every barrier, 
sweeping impetuously onward down, down to its mother ocean, 
there to lose itself in her caressing arms. Pretty cottages dotted 
the mountain side ; broad wheat fields, ripe for the early harvest, 
spread like a gilded plain below; here a modest rivulet and brows- 
ing fiocks feeding lazily upon the grassy slope. 

It was late in the afternoon when they reached B , where 

they found the family carriage in waiting. 

“Where is Lionel, mother?” asked the daughter when they 
were seated. 

“Absent, dear, on business.” 

“ And when will he return ? ” 

“Hot for several days, I think probably a week.” 

“Then he will not be at my party;” said Myra, in tones of dis- 
appointment. 

“Ho. He left many regrets; was very sorry that he could not 
attend, but the matter w^as urgent.” 

“ Business 1 business!” repeated her questioner with affected 
petulance ; “ the bugbear ! I think he might have postponed that 
all important ‘ business ’ — whatever it may chance to be — in honor 
of so auspicious an occasion as the present. Home will hardly 
seem such without his familiar face.” 

“He will lose no time in riding over on his return, I am sure, ” 
observed the mother apologetically, “ He is very fond of you, my 
child.” 


DOMESTIC FELICITY. 


29 


“And the fondness is mutual,'’ was the frank rejoinder. “He 
is decidedly more to my taste than any young fop of my ac- 
quaintance.” 

“Lionel is a noble fellow;” remarked the father, catching the 
drift of their conversation as he approached with more bundles 
than he could conveniently carry. I have known him since we 
were boys together, and I can’t mention another who could show 
so fair a record. He has been more than a brother to me:” he 
added warmly. 

TJje road was hard and smooth : the fast trotters at the loosen- 
ing of the rein sped down the sandy drive with incredible speed, 
_ and before thej^ were fairly settled in their seats, Violet Bank 
came in view as gasping Day reclined her hectic cheek upon 
the breast of Eve, and illumined by the ruddy glow, Myra 
thought that she had never seen it look half so beautiful. 

“My dear old home!” she cried rapturously, “can it be that I 
indeed behold your verdant steep once more!” 

Aunt Jemima met the dusty travellers with a hearty welcome. 

“Well! I declar!” exclaimed the wQWQvahlQ femme de cham- 
hre in an ecstasy of pleasure and admiration: “And so I s’pose 
yawl raly has got back home at last all safe and sound. I was on- 
easy all de time you was gone. I never did like these here ingines 
much nohow, and you hears of so many coliseums and sich like 
now-a-days. And you raly is done fotch Miss Myra home sure 
nough ! Lord, bless my young mistis. How does you do, honey ? 
Shake hands wid de ole nigger, and tell her howdy. Lord ! Lord ! 
jest to think that you’s done come home for good ! and you’s done 
got so pretty too ! Great gracious, chile ! if you aint jest as pre- 
sackly like your ma! and you know I always did say dat she was 
the lovliest ’oman as ever set foot in this here country.” 

Myra, touched by the honest outpourings of a sincere though 
simple heart, returned the greeting with kindness and good hu- 
mor. “Thank you. Aunt Jemima; lam very well, and more 
pleased to return than you are to have me. But you must not 
flatter me ; you remember I never liked it. It is needless to in- 
quire after your health — you look as young and active as when I 
last saw you.” 

“Lord! Lord! ” ejaculated the old woman, too much overcome 
to find vent for her feelings in other than her favorite interjection. 


30 


MYRA. 


Having divested themselves of their traveling apparel, they 
were ushered into the supper room where the evening meal was 
spread with the delicacies of the season ; and although Aunt Je- 
mima insisted that the bread ^‘hadn’t riz nigh as well as usual,” 
Myra declared that she had not seen any thing like it since she 
left Violet Bank. 

A prettier domestic scene could hardly be imagined — the very 
picture, as it was, of home happiness. After a ten months’ sepa- 
ration, each had so much to say that neither knew exactly where 
to begin. Mr. Marston entertained tiiem meanwhile with puns 
and witicisms, which evoked from the daughter a clear ringing 
laugh, in comparison with which, the finest composition of Beet- 
hoven would have sounded harsh and discordant to the fond ears 
that drank its melody. 

“ Well ! Pet,” (his most endearing sobriquet) he said at length, ‘‘ 1 
suppose ‘ mother ’ ” (he had a habit of speaking of his wife as 
“mother” when addressing his child) “wrote you of our new 
neighbors?” 

“Yes, sir; — that is, she mentioned the fact without going into 
particulars. Pray ! who and what are they?” 

“Ah! you are too hard for me,” with a comical expression. 
“Characters in their way — unique. The boys (I know little of the 
elders) are endowed with wonderful memories, attach great import- 
ance to pedigree and have a way of informing themselves upon 
the standing, both socially and financially, of every one whose name 
they hear mentioned. They have not been in the county a month, 
and I venture to say that there is not a man of prominence in 

S whose lineage they could not trace, besides giving the exact 

figures of his last year’s tax account.” 

Myra smiled, and expressed a curiosity to see so remarkable a 
family. 

Pleading fatigue, she retired early — at least, went to her room 
with ^that intention. Aunt Jemima, unable longer to restrain her- 
self and thirsting for a bit of gossip, soon followed. 

“And so, mistis, I s’pose you raly has come home to stay! And 
just to think that I, as nursed your ma, should ever live to see you 
a growd up young lady! It does seem too funny, I declar!” 

“Yes, Aunt Jemima; it is really true; I have certainly come 


DOMESTIC FELICITY. 


31 


home for good. Don’t you think I am old enough to make my 
debut ?” — mischievously. 

‘‘What ’s dat you ax me? ‘Don’t I think you is ole enough to 
have a beau?’ Well! I knows one thing — ole enough or not ole 
enough, you is guine to have ’em, and a plenty of ’em, too.” 

Myra, thinking an explanation would consume time, made none, 
and the old domestic rattled on : 

“ How glad all de young gentmen will be to see you turned out — 
to be sure; enough of ’em ’s been inquiring about you — axin’ me 
when you was comin home, and all dat. But, lor! mistis; we 
has got some of de curisis folks ober here at Cedar Grove as 
€ber I come across in all my born days. I heard marster tellin’ 
you about ’em at supper, and dey does beat all for tryin’ to find 
out what every body has got of any folks as ever I see. One of 
dem young ones (I done forgot Jiis name — Rodolphin, or some- 
thin’ like dat) come by my house ’tother day and axed me who 
dis place belonged to. ‘Why! to marster, to be sure,’ says I; 
‘ who else did you s’pose it belonged to ?’ 

“‘Oh! yes,’ says he, kinder hesitatin; ‘I know it belongs to 
him now, but aint he got a daughter?’ 

“‘To be sure!’ says I; ‘Miss Myra, and about as likely a young 
lady as you eber set eyes on, too.” 

“‘Well!’ says he; ‘won’t it belong to her when de ole man 
dies?’ 

“ ‘ To be sure !’ says I ; ‘ but look here, stranger, I dono nothin’ 
about you ; but I want you to remember dat my young mistis is 
a lady^ and she aint after wantin her father to die jest for her to 
get his property ; our folks is above dat.’ 

“ He looked sort o’ confused when I said dat, and I don’t speck 
he liked it much, ’cause he rid off kind o’ consulted like and ain’t 
had nothin’ to say to me since. I don’t care ef he didn’t; ’twont 
no matter fur him. I hates to jaw white folks, mistis; ’cause I 
know it shows a want of sense and low breedin’ besides ; but ef I 
is colored, I know I knows a gentrnan when I sees him, and I 
neber did have no opinion of him. You don’t hear of none of 
our young men going about and talkin’ dat kind o’ way.” 

Myra replied that, as she had never seen the gentleman under 
■discussion, slie was not competent to express an opinion. 

Aunt Jemima was by no means an exception to her sex, and, 


32 


MYRA. 


like the more enlightened of her kind, possessed that characteristic 
‘‘tongue” which sometimes proved rather an unruly member — es- 
pecially when the reputation of “her family” was in any way at 
stake. IS^ot noticing therefore, that her “young mistis’s” eyes 
were heavy, and that her garrulous recital was met only by mono- 
syllabic replies, she proceeded with the subject in hand, regard- 
less of the inattention of her auditor. 

“Now, thar’s Mars’ Lionel — jest as diiLerent as can be. Thar 
never was a nicer gentman ever breathed than he is, jest like I 
tells your ma constant. He thinks jest as much of a man whar 
couldn’t raise a red cent as ho does of one what is sot all over in 
diamonds, and more too, I believe. He is always a-givin’ some 
poor body somethin’, and you don’t never hear a word about it 
from him, you may be sure. The fact is, he always looks like he 
is real shame ef any body happens to find it out; but then, he is a 
real Christian, and ’s got good blood in his veins,” she added em- 
phatically. “He is over here nigh about half his time, and I jest 
believe he is after gettin’ in de family. I certain’y would like ta 
see you married and settled dowm for life wid sich a man as he is,” 

slyly- 

The very drowsy young lady to whom this panegyric was ad- 
dressed and the object of these laudably good wishes, now actu- 
ally screamed with laughter. “Why! Aunt Jemima; what an ab- 
surd speech ! and from one of your age too. I thought that you said 
you were glad to have me back ; it looks like it, when you are 
scheming to get rid of me before I Iiave been at home a day. 
Surely you would not have me married before I am well out of 
short dresses. I had given you credit for better judgment ; I have 
higher ambitions than matrimony. And Lionel, wouldn’t he 
laugh if he could only guess how you were plotting against his 
peace! Why, he is old enough for ray father; I always did think 
the world of him and look upon him exactly as I would upon a 
good, kind brother.” 

“Ah! yes, mistis;” with a solemn shake of the woolly head, “I 
knows all dat, and done hear young folks talk dat same way afore 
now. It sounds mighty nice to talk about bein’ ‘ brothers,’ and 
all dat, but ’taint nothin’ in it, den. You may laugh, mistis, but 
I tell you it ’s so. I aint after getin’ rid of you — jest de contrary. 
’T would be jest de same as bein’ at home, and so convenient every 


DOMESTIC FELICITY. 


33 


way — so close by, you know. As for his bein’ ole, dat needn’t to 
make no diff’rence, jest so de man ’s all right; and ’taint no use to 
hurry; it ’s plenty time yet. Thar’s Mars’ Lionel; he laughs too; 
but lor ! he can’t fool me, ’cause I’s been aknowin’ all de tricks too 
long. He was over here ’tother day, and I says to him — says I : 
‘ Look here, marster ; it ’pears to me like as how you ’s got a 
mighty hankerin’ over dis way; I jest believe as how you ’s after 
my young mistis.’ 

‘‘He laughed too jest like you did — and looked like he was 
jest as much s’prised as ef he never had tliought of sich a thing 
afore in all his born days. 

“‘Why, Aunt Jemima,’ says he, kinder o’ startin’ like; ‘I’m 
sprised at you. What could ever have put sich a thing as that 
into your head ? and I don’t see how you can say that I come to 
see Myra when she is not even at home.’ 

“‘Ah! yes,’ says I; ‘you may laugh, marster, but you can’t fool 
me. I’s a mighty ole nigger, you know, and ’s lived in dis world 
a long time. Dis aint de fust time I ever heard of sich a thing 
as ‘feedin’ de ole hen to ketch de chicken.’ 

“‘But,’ says he; ‘Aunt Jemima, she never would look at sich 
an ole man as I am. Don’t you see how gray I’m gettin? Whyr 
I’m ole enough for her father.’ 

“‘Oh! yes, marster; I know'S all dat,’ says I, kind o’ laughin, 
‘but dat needn’t to make no ditf’rence. Gray hairs is honorable,, 
you know ; and talk about bein’ ole — why ! you are jest in de prime 
of life. Besides, I aint never heard tell of nobody yet what was 
too ole to get married. ‘Don’t you ricollect,’ says I, ‘hearin 
marster tell about dat ole ’oman what he seen at de Saratogy Springs 
last summer whar had jest got married and kep’ goin’ about tollin’ 
all de young ladies she seed : ‘Hever despair, girls, never despair; 
I never had an oiler till I was eighty, and you see I’m married 
now.’ ‘ Don’t you ricollect it V says I.” 

Her well-meant pleasantry having ceased to amuse, reminded by 
several suggestive yawns that slie was keeping the “ blessed chile 
up, and suddenly remembering that she must be tired after riding 
all day on “ them dreadful cars,” with many blessings and a hearty 
“good night,” the old woman shuffled out of the apartment, leav- 
ing Myra to her own thoughts and the blissful oblivion of slumber. 


34 


MYRA. 


CHAPTEK Y. 

LIONEL. 

M YEA’S debut was truly flattering. Tlie event was cele- 
brated the evening after her arrival in one of those princely 
entertainments for which the Marstons had been famous for gene- 
rations back, and at which, being the daughter of the house and 
latest novelty, she was of course the chief attraction. Busy re- 
ceiving and returning subsequent calls, she was left little time for 
self-communion, yet such moments she w^ould and did find. 

In the centre of the garden was a grassy mound with no other 
ornamentation than its own verdure. On its summit grew a sol- 
itary willow (and as it stood there, year after year, and watched 
its gay companions ope their tender hearts to tlie languishing 
breath of spring, beguiled into blossom by summer showers, nip- 
ped and blighted by November’s trenchant blast, it bent lower its 
drooping boughs and wept over the vanity and evanescence of all 
earthly beauty). 

Myra had long since appropriated this umbrageous retreat; it 
had ever been a favorite haunt, and here she would repair at even- 
tide with her guitar, to sing her own simple ballads, or drink 
the dulcet warblings of the feathered orchestra as they chanted 
their parting vespers. Here she would retire within herself, muse 
and dream ! 

Then there were trunks to unpack, books to sort and arrange 
and paintings to be hung, some from her own dexterous brush, 
with others smaller and less artistic ; and while the latter 
suffered greatly by comparison, they were, by her, held infinitely 
more dear from the fact of their having been given on the eve of 
separation by her class-mates as tokens of affection and pledges of 
undying friendship. Her thoughts often reverted to the old In- 
stitute and the kind instructors wlio were held in such fond re- 
membrance. She formed many good resolutions, and devised 
many plans for future improvement. They had planted the germ ; 
should it grow and flourish, or perish in its infancy? She play- 


LIONEL. 


35 


fully styled her Alma Mater: “Minerva,” and identified know- 
ledge with the shield of Ferseus, which, if prudently and skill- 
fully handled, would enable its happy possessor to overcome all 
things. 

On the first Sabbath after her return, she had, at church, the 
gratification of beholding the much-talked-of Simses; but the pew 
occupied by the new comers being in rear of their own, she was 
unable to gain much information concerning them except that 
Madam’s ample figure was tightly incased in the heaviest of bro- 
caded velvets, and the red pufty face set off by a gay bonnet 
richly ornamented with plumes and buckles. Taking into con- 
sideration the temperature and occasion, this bizarre robe, together 
with the lavis*]! display of chains and flowers, rendered her ap- 
pearance sadly out of season, and ludicrous in the extreme. The 
young gentlemen w^ere of the same type; large, florid, sandy 
haired and blear-eyed ; this much a sweeping glance on entering 
sufiiced to show. Custom and breeding deprived her of ocular 
proof, but she felt instinctively that their eyes were upon her and 
watclied lier movements curiously. She could distinguish their 
thick, sonorous voices above the rest of the congregation, and — it 
being communion Sunday — she noticed that one of the sons ac- 
companied his mother to the consecrated board, while the other 
remained in his seat wfith the old gentleman, which august per- 
sonage went through his devotions in a business way, as though 
religion were, wfith him, quite an every-day affair. * * * ♦ 

Myra was at the piano one morning, running over the airs of 
some new songs, when her eyes were suddenly covered by a pair 
of masculine hands, and a laughing voice said : “ What an out- 
rage you are committing against the laws of songsters! Night- 
ingales do not sing at noonday.” 

She screamed, and extricating herself, jumped up exclaiming: 
“ Oh, Lionel ! how you did frighten me ! I have a great mind to 
say that I am not glad to see you one bit, just to avenge myself 
for your abrupt entrance.” 

“And suppose you did,” said he, smilingly; “I should not care, 
feeling too thoroughly convinced of the contrary. And besides, 
eligible young gentlemen are not such an exuberant growth 

about the sandy hills of B as to render it either expedient or 

politic for a young lady just entering upon the field of conquest 


36 


MYEA. 


to trample upon the rare, although obnoxious weed, the first time 
she disciovmrs one lianging about her path. She would display 
far better tactics did she cull the unsightly exotic and declare it 
an ornament to her drawing-room, even though it were a little 
bruised and slightly touched by autumnal frosts.” 

“Spoken like a sage, alias ‘\aoxiq\ Harrison, Attorney at Law,’”' 
cried his companion with a ringing laugh. “How is it when the 
‘obnoxious weed’ doesn’t wait to be culled, but creeps into the 
front parlor uninvited, without so much as a: ‘ Fray, permit me V 

“ Unannounced, but not uninvited,” drawing her to a seat and 
scanning her features narrowly; “I met your mother as I was 
coming up the terrace; and she told me that you were within. I 
thought 1 would steal upon you and see what you were doing.” 

There was no mistaking that look, yet she met his earnest gaze 
coolly and replied: “Which was unfair.” 

“From whicii I am to infer tliat you are not glad to see me. 
Give the word and Fll decamp.” 

“Fishing for a compliment! Well, well! I thought you were 
above such.” 

“My angling is not very successful, it seems.” 

“As results prove.” 

“ But you ai^e glad ?” anxiously. 

“Why, of course I am. Did you apprehend that I was not? 
Hot on the grounds you suggest though, as I do not aspire to the 
dignity of a young lady; for while 1 can play the role for a time,, 
whenever occasion requires, yet, when I find myself back at my 
dear old home again, 1 am as much a child as ever and expect to 
remain so for some years yet. 1 have missed you dreadfully ever 
since my return ; it seemed all the while as though some one were 
missing.” 

“What! not lonesome?” 

“Indeed; no!” 

“Why do you say ‘indeed?’ Perhaps it has been too much 
the reverse.” 

“ Oh, no; although B seems like Paris in miniature after the 

monotony of school life. I like excitement, and I like quiet also ; 
I like variety; I prefer a little of both.” 

“And under no circumstances are you likely to forget old 
friends ?” 


LIONEL. 


37 


“Not 1. I have a decided veneration for ‘ Auld Lang Syne.’” 

Lionel smiled his own peculiar half-sad, but beautiful smile. 
Myra did not notice it. He said simply: “That’s right. I hope 
you will always think and feel as you now do.” 

Nothing would do but that she must stand up and allow her 
measure to be taken, ascertaining thereby her precise accession of 
height during what he termed “her late incarceration.” The 
result seemed to have proved satisfactory, as, stepping a short 
distance olf, he took an admiring survey of the girlish figure be- 
fore him and said reflectively: “ Five feet, three. Ver}" pretty 
altitude. Miss Marston.” His voice took a graver inflection as he 
added musingly: Tempus ftigit ! How true! What an old 
man I must be, certainly! Just to think that I was a grown man 
when you were a baby! It seems but yesterday, and yet you 
stand before me to-day — a woman!” 

Myra’s light laugh recalled him. “Do hush; you will make 
me blue and spoil my whole day’s pleasure. Why brood over 
the inevitable? Stop croaking about your age; you can’t help it, 
you know, and so it is worse than folly to distress yourself about 
it. Besides, 1 don’t see tliat you have any right to complain; we 
judge of age only by comparison, and it is not your fault that you 
were made to begin your career at a period anterior to that of 
some one else. We have hut one youths and it matters very little 
when that is. You are not exactly a Methuselah yet, and don’t 
look a bit old, I assure you. Old Time, you remember, is a 
strictly impartial donor, and bequeaths to one and all a legacy of 
years.” 

A grateful look answered her. He understood the drift of her 
remark, appreciated the reproof, and thanked her for it. 

“I am done,” he hastened to reply; “I acknowledge that 1 was 
selflsh and ungrateful; but you shall never have cause to scold 
me again for a similar offense. I cannot suppress a shade of sad- 
ness when I compare my face with — yours, for instance; but I 
have everything to make me happy just now, and not!iing to ren- 
der me otherwise. I would not make you ‘blue’ for any con- 
sideration, certainly not to-day, when I haven’t seen you before 
for so long a time. You will very justly pronounce my society 
^ prosy,’ and be better without than with it unless I prove myself 
a more enlivening companion ; so I intend to set aside my ‘ croak- 


38 


MYRA. 


ings/ and play ‘good boy ’ for the balance of the day; not a sylla- 
ble of complaint shall cross my lips.’’ 

Myra’s sympathetic spirits rose and fell with the other’s humor. 
His words had cast a damper upon her artless gayety. Lionel ob- 
served it. 

“Come! you must exchange that melancholy countenance for 
one a little brighter and more animated, please, else I shall con- 
sider my visit a failure and be sorry that I came at all. Sing for 
me,” in a lighter tone; “I enjoy no one’s music so much.” 

“‘Nightingales do not sing at noonday,’” wickedly. 

“But mocking-birds do.” 

“ Oh, man ! thy name is inconsistency. I don’t want to sing, — 
at least, not just yet; I want to talk. You haven’t answered my 
questions.” 

“ 1 was not aware that you had asked any.” 

“Haven’t I? I intended to. You frightened them all away.” 

“I am on the stand; proceed.” 

“ When did you get home ?” 

“Last night; and as mother was anxious to hear the result of 
my trip, we did not retire until an unusually late hour. This 
must be my apology, should you find me uncommonly stupid.” 

“How is your mother?” 

“Quite well; and by the way, she sent love and says that you 
must run over and sit with her whenever you are at a loss for 
more agreeable company. I had not mentioned it before : first,, 
because it had entirely escaped my memory ; and secondly, I 
deemed it ‘vain repetition’ to recite a prologue always understood 
in the female drama. Anything else?” 

“Nothing important.” 

“Now for the song.” 

“ What shall it be ?” 

“Anything.” 

“ Then I am forced to decline, for the reason that I do not 
know the piece to which you allude. I never heard it in my life 
and was not even aware that a song bearing that title had ever 
been published. Is it operatic, comic or sentimental?” 

“Oh, woman! thy name is perversity,” imitating her tone and 
expression. “ Sing not any thing ^ but any Bong you like. I do 
not know what style suits your voice best, and am not conversant 


LIONEL. 


39 


with the names of the popular airs of the present day. I am pas- 
sionately fond of music, as you well know, and am not so profi- 
cient that you need entertain fears of criticism ; so you may make 
your own selection, feeling assured of an appreciative, if not an 
enthusiastic listener.” 

She was gifted with a voice of rare compass, and its native 
sweetness and thorough training rendered her a vocalist seldom 
surpassed. She poured her whole soul into the melody; one mo- 
ment full and clear; the next, and it had sunk to a soft, pathetic 
cadence, and died away like a poet’s dream in a scarcely audible 
whisper. 

Awake, Endymion ! gaze upon thy goddess. Too long hast 
thou slumbered; awake ! A little while, and she is lost to you — 
lost in the light of another’s day ; a little while, and a tiny cres- 
cent dawns upon your despairing vision ; a little while, and a half- 
formed orb gives promise of a bright maturity; again a little 
while, she rises at her full and smiles upon you. Endymion, 
awake ! 

His eyes had not quitted her face for an instant. His thought 
the while had been something like this: ‘‘How exquisitely beau- 
tiful! The face of Helen, the voice of a siren, the figure of a 
sylph, with the grace of a gazelle. A more gifted and fairer 
type of the too fair mother. Life is no longer aimless.” 

Pardon, reader, the extravagance of a guileless and enamored 
youth reveling in the sunshine and blossoms of his fortieth sum- 
mer, especially when you learn that his dignity and self-command 
were in no way compromised thereby. 

“I approve your choice,” was the thanks she got. “You sing 
well;” in his natural even tone. 

“And pray, sir student!” confronting him saucily, “in what 
school have you been studying fiattery? It is a late accomplish- 
ment, acquired since last I saw you.” 

“Excuse me; I had forgotten. You don’t like compliments.” 

“No.” And she did not. Candid to a fault, it was a game 
she never indulged in, and preferred that others should prove by 
acts rather than words their estimate of herself. 

Lionel Harrison was deservedly considered a fine-looking man. 
In height slightly above the average, of fine physique and easy 
bearing, a high broad brow, and features, though regular, de- 


40 


MYRA. 


cidedly masculine. But one thing he lacked to make him hand- 
some; some erratic star had crossed his horoscope, giving him a 
pair of deep gray eyes instead of the midnight orbs that would 
have harmonized more perfectly with the jet black liair. Even 
Myra was compelled to admit as much, notwithstanding youth’s 
enemy, as the sympathetic confidant of some early disappointment, 
had left here and there a silvery tear-drop upon his sable coronal. 
The nature of lier impressions, however, can be better understood 
hereafter. 

For herself, she was by no means the Yenus that her too par- 
tial friend would believe her. Her form was lithe and grace- 
ful certainly, her lineaments delicate and symmetrical; yet, 
as to the actual contour, there were many prettier faces ; it was 
the soul, revealed through the large expressive eye, now slumber- 
ous, now sparkling, and in which lay more than half her charms. 

He criticised and admired her paintings. The conversation 
turned upon art, and then upon school life generally. 

“You liked Hey wood?” he asked presently. 

She looked thoughtful. “ That can be answered both in the af- 
firmative and negative; on the whole, yes. Hard study and often- 
times mortification hung in one scale, improvement and reward 
as a counterbalance in the other. Nothing good or great can be 
achieved without labor, and I think the most redeeming feature 
in the human constitution is a tendency to forget whatever is dis- 
agreeable, and remember only that which is pleasant.” 

“ But you are glad to get back, glad to be at home, glad to lay 
aside your books?” 

“Glad to get back, glad to be at home, I certainly am; but I 
do not intend to give up study simply because I am no longer 
compelled to recite to a professor, there being a higher Master 
whose eye we can never evade. Nothing can be more erroneous 
than the idea entertained by some persons, that their education is 
finished when the curriculum is completed. I look upon the pre- 
paration at school merely as the ground work ; it is for the student 
to decide whether or not he will build thereon.” 

“ True, but you are an enthusiast, and, I fear, slightly fanatical 
on this subject. This question, like all others, has two sides; and 
while your views are, to a certain extent, correct, there is a limit 
to, and a season for all things. I should think that you had had 


THE MESSRS. SIMS. 


41 


enough of study for the present, your mind needs rest and recrea- 
tion. Besides, you must remember that you are a school-girl no 
longer ; society has claims on you ; you should not live for self 
alone.” 

“ Exactly, society has claims ; it shall have its due ; but I do not 
wish to give up all ray time to pleasure; we should have some 
higher aim in life than a ceaseless round of dissipation.” 

Strange words from one of your age and sex.” 

“Unusual, perhaps; but not strange. The mind is a fertile 
field; it must, and will yield something — roses or brambles. I 
prefer the former.” 

The dinner bell rang. A look of mutual surprise told how 
swiftly the hours had passed. Both had had a pleasant morning; 
to one it had been more than pleasant. 


CHAPTER YI. 

THE MESSES. SIMS. 

L ionel volunteered to instruct his little friend in the myste- 
ries of horsemanship — she being somewhat out of practice — 
and daring one of their rides, on passing Cedar Grove, Myra 
chanced to speak of their singular neighbors and he remembered 
something he had to communicate. It was to the effect that the 
Messrs. Sims had been — to use his own expression — “struck” 
with her appearance at church, and had expressed a desire to call, 
provided it would be agreeable. 

She was strolling in the garden a few evenings after, when Aunt 
Jemima rushed into her presence with : “Lor, mistis ! who does you 
reckon is in de parlor?” 

“I have no idea. Aunt Jemima; some one of consequence, judg- 
ing from your excitement.” 

“Hor Taint, nuther. ’Tis dem Simses.” 

“Who?” 

“De Sims boys; dem furriners,” contemptuously; “de Lord 
only knows what dey come for; and Mars’ Lionel fotch ’em, too; 
dat gits me.” 

Aunt Jemima’s words were verified, and she found Lionel, with 
4 


42 


MYKA. 


the youths aforementioned, patiently awaiting her entrance. 
Her lirst emotion was curiosity, her next amusement; and she 
dared not encounter Lionel’s equivocal eyes as he went through 
the introductions with studied ceremoniousness. 

Mr. Rodolphus (the elder) had spent extraordinary care upon 
his toilet. He did not intend that his time and trouble should count 
for nothing. He sat where his elegant person might enjoy a full 
benefit of the light, which elegant person Myra analyzed as follows ; 

First, A pair of hands of astonishing magnitude, feet of cor- 
responding proportions. 

Secondly, An enormous cravat of sapphire silk richly embroid- 
ered in amber butterflies. 

Thirdly, A massive watch-chain that dangled conspicuously 
from the front, and with which he was wont to occupy the first- 
named Herculean members. 

Fourthly, A dress coat, handsome, but rather tight, purchased 
probably before the wearer had fully attained the ernbonjpoint of 
early manhood. 

Lastly, A pair of pale blue eyes, which, judging from outward 
evidences, must have been liquid in the extreme. They leered at 
her nervously from out their protrusive sockets as he bowed awk- 
wardly, slightly agitated but intensely complacent. 

His brother, who had taken refuge in a more shadowy corner 
of the apartment, was a size smaller, more juvenile in appear- 
ance, and more modestly attired. His features were of a different 
mould, of a clearer and more intellectual cast, but the general air, 
to say nothing of hair and complexion, undeniably averred their 
consanguinity. 

Rodolphus, as senior, took the lead in conversation — nay, mo- 
nopolized it. He was energetic — his tone expressed it; he was 
coarse — his manner showed it; he was conceited — his words be- 
betrayed it; he was soulless — his sentiments proved it. He evi- 
dently proposed making an ‘‘ irnpressson,” and his tongue, having 
been once set in motion, appeared indefatigable. Having begun 
to talk, he made no pause, as though he feared if he did, he would 
never be able to begin again ; and talk he did, incessantly, and 
with increasing animation, inspirited by the inward conviction 
that he was producing an effect upon the mind of his fair listener, 
construing her silence into unspeakable admiration. 


THE MESSRS. SIMS. 


43 


Silent she certainly was; she could hardly have been otherwise, 
the extreme loquacity of her guest allowing her no opportunity to 
edge in a remark — leaving her nothing to do but listen, wonder, 
and admire! 

He discussed the current items of neighborhood gossip with re- 
freshing gusto, and Myra was made to wonder more than once at 
her total ignorance of tlie private affairs of the worthy denizens 
who went to make up the community in which she lived. No 
subject was left untouched, — public enterprise, domestic differ- 
ences, politics, love, and religion all were in turn exhausted. The 
latter seemed, for some reason, a theme of unusual interest; again 
and again he strayed from it, again and again he returned. 
‘‘Now, there’s ma,” he said, finally; she’s a cliurchwoman. I 
believe she would have prayers niglit and morning if the house 
were burning down over her head. For my part, I can’t see the 
use in praying when you don’t feel like it. Sometimes I go, when 
the lesson is short; when it is long, I don’t. Henry, here,” with 
a patronizing glance at that minor individual, “is no more than a 
baby ; he likes it no better than I do, but suffers himself to be 
tied to an apron string and led about like a pet poodle. The fact 
is, I don’t see the good of so much religion any way, unless you 
intend to be a parson, or something of that kind. 

“I once had a notion of studying for the church myself,” he 
went on, loftily, “but afterwards thought better of it and con- 
cluded that it was too much of a bore. If it were only the services 
on Sundays and holy-days, it would be a different thing; but there 
are marriages and funerals to do, besides being liable to be called 
off at any time to administer consolation to a sick pauper. On 
the whole, it is too much of a bother.” 

Having made this declaration — having shown himself off — he 
could afford to take breath. He leaned back in his chair and 
allowed his large hands to dangle idly at his side, serenely self- 
satisfied. 

She looked at his brother: he had never changed expression. 
She looked at Lionel: a moment before “disgust” could alone 
have expressed her feelings, but a glance at the latter’s mirth-lit 
countenance sent her fan to her face, and it was with the greatest 
difficulty tliat she could refrain from laughing outright. 


44 


MYRA. 


The probabilities were that they would stay to tea, albeit it was 
their first call; it w’as already dark, and still they lingered. 

The meal was announced; never was music sweeter, offering as 
it did a brief interval of relief. They rose to go. Myra invited 
them to remain. They were easily persuaded ; they staid. 

‘‘Shall I send you tea or coffee?” asked Mrs. Marston, from 
the head of the table. 

“ Coffee, if you please,” said Mr. Eodolphus, a little eagerly ; 
“I never drink tea, it’s too nasty.” 

Mrs. Marston arched her brows in astonishment'; a mischievous 
twinkle lurked in her husband’s eye as he went on with his 
carving; Lionel involuntarily stole a glance at Myra, who sat 
opposite; while she, in turn, became suddenly absorbed in the 
contents of her plate. Aunt Jemima elevated her venerable pro- 
boscis and carried it in the air the rest of the evening. I^one of 
the party could suppress a smile whenever the incident recurred 
to their memories, although they afterw^ards learned that the term 
was peculiar to their nation, and bore a signification altogether 
different from that understood by Virginians. 

Some physician has, by experimenting with dyspeptics, ascer- 
tained that the liver, rather than the heart, is the seat of the 
affections. In the present instance tlie theory was confirmed, and 
while the premonitory symptoms of what was formerly known 
as the “malady of the heart” vary with the disposition, the diag- 
nosis is the same. Ho sooner were they seated around the hos- 
pitable board than Mr. Henry’s tongue was mysteriously loosened, 
and he talked with a fluency and affability that was both credit- 
able to himself and agreeable to his host. His humor and appe- 
tite bore an infallible ratio; his rise of spirits and the calling 
into action of his digerent organs being coeval — his vivacity 
increasing each time he was invited to partake of some fresh del- 
icacy. His entertainers were satisfied to note the effect without 
enquiring into causes; aunt Jemima’s penetration was more acute. 
His brother, on the other hand, appeared to be differently consti- 
tuted: upon him the process acted as a gentle narcotic, it quieted 
his nerves, rendering him totally indifferent to all the world, Mr. 
Eodolphus Sims excepted. He soon became drowsy, and relapsed 
into a profound silence from which no one cared to arouse him. 

They had not long returned to the drawing-room when 


THE MESSRS. SIMS. 


45 


Lionel slipped out to enjoy a quiet smoke in the library ; where- 
upon, Rodolphus seized upon a copy of the ‘‘Times” which he 
discovered lying upon the centre-table, and utterly ignoring the 
presence of liis companions, settled himself comfortably in a corner 
of the sofa and set about studying the market reports, hoping to 
calculate through that medium the probable rise in beef during the 
ensuing winter, feeling a peculiar interest in the issue from the fact 
that his father was contemplating a bovine speculation. 

Being now left tete-a-tete with Henry, and he being no longer 
fearful of interfering with his big brotlier (as had evidently been 
the case before tea) she found the younger — though not altogether 
so animated as under the late favorable auspices — sensible, and 
almost entertaining. She discovered that he was fond of reading ; 
they were now no longer at a loss for themes as their favorite 
authors were discussed one after another. 

If left alone, they would have gotten on very pleasantly together. 
Presently they were disturbed by a sound from the sofa — some- 
thing between a laugh and a growl — and a hoarse voice said 
brusquely: ‘‘Well! I must say that you two are hard run for some- 
thing to talk about.” 

To say that Myra was astounded, would be in no way to de- 
scribe her emotions. She had tliought that she was prepared for 
anything, but such unprovoked rudeness she had never seen nor 
dreamt of. Her large eyes flashed ; she rested them full upon him, 
measured him from head to foot; she said nothing. 

He did not see the look, and would not have felt it if he had. 

“And you read novels?” still intent upon his paper. 

“I do,” in a severe, haughty tone. “Is there anything odd or 
remarkable in the fact?” 

“ I don’t,” in no way discomfited ; “ I don’t throw away my time 
on any such nonsense.” 

“ Fiction is not necessarily nonsense.” 

“All that I ever read was — sentimental nonsense. Love and 
adventure! bosh! made-up tales to get people’s money.” 

“They could spend it more unprofltably.” 

“And the time?” 

“Passed much more agreeably — at least, with me — and cer- 
tainly more harmlessly than in idle gossip about our kind and in- 
offensive neighbors,” pointedly. 


46 


MYKA. 


‘‘Lovesick — silly! Hairbreadth escapes — tush!” pursued the 
imperturbable Sims, taking no notice of the scathing rebuke. 

“Love — real love — is not silly,” said his contestant warmly. 
“Hairbreadth escapes or not, it is hard for the imagination to 
conceive anything more startling or more improbable than acci- 
dents that are actually occurring dail}^, almost hourly, if we may 
rely upon our telegraphs as authority. I think,” she went on in 
a milder tone, “that there jnust be some special Providence to 
rule over the destinies of the brave and noble; heroic spirits must 
have peculiar claims upon divine protection. Think of the many 
miraculous deliverances in cases of those who have hazarded 
all for the good of their fellow-men. I am tempted to claim for 
real heroes what has been ascribed to those of romance, ‘ a cork- 
jacket, which carries them safe through all the billows of afflic- 
tion.’” 

Heroism ! bravery and nobility ! “ pearls before swine ! ” Mr. 
Sims drew forth a silk pocket-handkerchief with which he mop- 
ped his forehead, then spread the gaudy square upon liis lap* 
“Ho nature, no variety in them,” he objected. 

“ Yery little in life,” was the ready rejoinder. “Human nature 
is the same the world over, actuated by similar feelings and mo- 
tives, governed merely by circumstances and surroundings.” 

“They all get married, and that’s the end of them.” 

“Most people do, when they meet the right person.” 

Mr. Sims was becoming irritated. He liked to have his own 
way; he always had, and always meant to. He liked to carry his 
point, even upon as trivial a question as the one under discussion. 
He was anything but a ladies’ man. He had always intended to 
marry, when, by so doing, he could possess himself of a fortune 
ample enough to render the step advantageous; hut for the fair 
sex in general he had a supreme contempt. He looked upon them 
all as stupid, simpering, and wishy-washy; in short, as an inferior 
order of creation, whose sole mission in life was to administer to 
the comfort of man, their incomparable superior. To be outdone 
to be out-argued by a woman, a chit of a girl, was something he 
was not prepared for. He fidgeted uneasily. “ Childish, trashy ! ” 
he muttered petulantly. 

Myra was seldom rude ; never unless exasperated beyond all 
powers of endurance. She was exasperated now. The presump- 


THE MESSRS. SIMS. 


47 


tioii, the unblushing insolence of this vulgar, egotistical pretender, 
was something she was not prepared for, and would not brook. 

“I am surprised that any sensible person should indulge in such 
language,’’ she said, in measured accents, levelling a piercing 
glance at liim. “ Fiction comprises some of our finest specimens 
of literature. Good novels (and those of an objectionable nature 
we are not compelled to read) cannot fail to instruct and improve, 
as our own characters unconsciously assimilate such as inspire us 
with love and admiration. I speak from personal experience 
when I affirm that historical events and information generally 
can be more easily retained when associated with some pleasing 
story. I am, like many others, unfortunately endowed with a 
poor memory, and do not deem it an exaggeration when I say 
that I am more indebted to fiction for the authentic incidents with 
whicli I am acquainted tlian to all the histories I ever studied.” 

The paper was cast aside with an impatient gesture; the ruddy 
face and watery eyes were turned toward her. never 

learned anything from them,” as though to dismiss a subject un- 
worthy of further discussion, and in tones that would have been 
half angry, had he been less confident of his own judgment and 
abilities. 

She met the look fearlessly. Fire leaped to her eye; for a mo- 
ment it glowed, then melted in disdain. Saying simply, but with 
marked empliasis: “That is quite obvious,” she turned and re- 
sumed her conversation with the younger brother, as coolly as 
though nothing had occurred. 

He, meanwhile, had never opened his lips during the alterca- 
tion; he had not taken sides, he had advanced no opinion. When 
Myra’s pleasant voice addressed him, he looked embarrassed — 
worse than that — he looked positively frightened. 

That last observation had completely silenced the elder Sims. 
He stared at her awhile curiously, steadily, with an expression of 

What do you mean ?” then returned to his paper. Something 
in her face awed him; something in her manner overpowered 
him. He had received an impression ; that girl was not like other 
girls. A change was going on in that thick brain of his; a new 
feeling had been awakened within him. It might have been re- 
spect (if he could respect anything short of gold) ; it might have 
been fear (more probably it was; the bravado is seldom brave at 


48 


MYRA. 


heart); at any rate, it was something^ manifested in the friendly 
disposition he evinced at parting. Walking up to her, with the 
air of conferring an honor, he tendered her one of his big paws 
to shake. We say, for her to shake, because he offered to per- 
form no such like kindly office on the little white hand which she 
reluctantly extended him. Henry did not dare presume so far 
upon their limited acquaintance, but made his adieu in a profound 
hend (it could hardly be called a bow). 

She looked in the library before retiring, and found the tria 
there enjoying the coziest of cozy chats. Her father w’as in one 
of his gayest moods, and pulling her upon his lap, asked jocosely ^ 
“Well, little one, and how have you spent the evening?” 

“ To say that it has been passed as unsatisfactoril}^ as unprofit- 
ably, would scarcely convey my meaning, father.” 

“What! weren’t the young gentlemen entertaining? I had an' 
impression that neither was deficient in the gift of the gab.” 

“ Conversation — at least, interesting conversation — does not con- 
sist in words alone, father ; there must be congeniality of thought 
and feeling also.” 

“You look grave. What ’s the matter?” 

“A good deal.” 

“Anything serious?” 

“ Yes. In the first place, I lost my temper, which, as you know,, 
is not a pleasant reflection. In the second place, I was exasperated 
so far as to be rude — rude in my own house — to make remarks- 
that would have offended a gentleman mortally.” 

“Ahem I A grave insinuation to bring against your late visi- 
tors.” 

‘,‘Pardon me ; Iforgot,” with curling lip, “ gentlemen ? — of course^ 
They have wealth, consequently position. It is the vice of Amer- 
ican society. Take that from them, and 3^011 would see where that 
same society would place them. That is,” she said, recollecting 
herself, “I’ll take that back; at least a part of it. I should not 
have used a plural in the epithet I adopted ; I have no complaint 
to make against the younger. He is awkward and diffident, true; 
but modest and gentlemanly, which virtues cover a multitude of 
faults.’ ” 

“And you can’t say as much for the other?” 

“No.” The tone was enough. 


THE MESSRS. SIMS. 


49 


“You are too hard on him. He seems abrupt; that is because 
he is not familiar with our habits and customs. I don’t think he 
means anything by it, it is more through ignorance than want of 
respect. ” 

“Just so; but native gentlemanliness will show itself despite 
habits and customs.” 

“A queer fish, I admit;” with a laugh. 

“I was just thinking,” looking around upon the group, “how 
much more pleasantly the hours would have passed in here with 
you three.” 

“An odd speech from a yonng lady just stepping upon the car- 
pet, eh! ‘mother’?” stroking her curls with paternal pride. “ If 
you lose your temper with every one you chance to meet who does 
not exactly come up to your standard, both morally and intellect- 
ually, I am afraid that my little girl has a thorny Yath before her.” 

“ And you, Lionel 1 1 have a crow to pick with you. Why did 

you leave me ?” 

“I feared*! might be de trop returned the interrogated party 
with a smile. “ I wished to do my duty by all present, and did not 
know but that, with a clear field, you might probably make an 
‘impression.’” 

“ Since — judging from superficies — you deemed them both pecu- 
liarly susceptible;” with a curious mingling of mischief and irony. 

“Precisely. I don’t know so well about the other, but I don’t 
believe that that boy Hodolphus is really capable of emotion — 
that is, tender emotion. He is as cold-blooded a specimen as I 
have met lately ; his heart is as hard as adamant.” 

“I protest,” cried Myra, clapping her liands gleefully, from 
whose dimpling cheeks and sparkling eyes, the last shadow had 
disappeared. “ I protest. You shall not disgrace so precious a 
gem by such an irrelevant comparison. If a jewel it be, say 
rather an incondite emerald. I entertain serious doubt in my 
own mind, and think the question extremely problematical, as to 
whether he is endowed with such an attribute as the soul. I 
think it highly probable that the immortal essence was, through 
some mysterious oversight, unfortunately omitted in his compo- 
sition. 

“An idea strikes me;” with a merrier twinkle, “The vacuity 
is supplied by a rubber sack inflated with the gas of self-conceit. 


50 


MYRA. 


This sack is surrounded by solid ramparts, which can be pene- 
trated by nothing less than a golden bullet, and the more heavily 
you load the rifle, the more certain you will be to carry the citadel.” 

A general laugh followed: the fond father patted her cheek 
playfully. ‘‘Too sarcastic! too sarcastic! You will have to learn 
to curb that little tongue of yours, my dear, else it may get you 
into no end of scrapes some day. Satire is a dangerours gift, and 
one which should never be cultivated nor indulged. The world 
will laugh and applaud, but hate you for it nevertheless.” 

As Mr. Sims walked home in the starlight, the receding ac- 
clivity, with its princely pile, seemed bathed in Utopian splendor. 
From time to time he involuntarily looked backward. “A valu- 
able estate, by Jove!” was the mental observation. “By Gad! 
if I wouldn’t like to own it.” 

Mr. Henry’s thoughts had been of a somewhat similar nature, 
until scattered to the winds by a remark from his brother. 

“I say, Henry, a flne place this, and a good-looking girl too, 
by Jove! On the whole, I don’t know but that I’ll knarry her.” 

“Provided she proves tractable, and answers your proposition 
atfirrnatively,” suggested Mr. Henry, timidly. 

“ Pshaw, Henry !” retorted the other fretfully; “what foolish 
notions you do take up! I thought you had been in this country 
long enough to have found out that the market was not so glutted 
with men of property that one need be lightly esteemed. Your 
proviso is absurd. Besides, she has rather more sense than com- 
mon — too much to refuse m^.” 

Mr. Henry offered no remonstrance, but like a discreet youth, 
as he was, prudently surrendered without further parley. If the 
floww of hope had, from the richness of his imagination, sprung 
prematurely into life, it was, in the present instance, doomed never 
to blossom, having been nipped in the bud by this last declaration 
of his fraternal senior. He knew from experience his brother’s 
creed. It was embraced in three words; to wit, “ might is right;” 
and in strict adherence to the letter of his faith, his uttered wish 
knew no appeal. He was passionate and arbitrary, easily pro- 
voked, relentless in his ire. He felt a peculiar pleasure in inflict- 
ing pain upon whatever was weaker than himself, in tormenting 
birds, and in cruelty to animals. He delighted in blood; was 
there anything to be killed, anything to be butchered, he was 


THE MESSRS. SIMS. 


51 


certain to be on the spot. Malicious and revengeful, his word 
was law in his family, none of whom dared ever to cross him; and 
his very name was a terror to the domestics, toward vrhom he 
showed no consideration or mercy. 

Mr. Marston was, as Mr. Sims expressed it, a very hospitable 
man ; and by the way, his — that is, Mr. Sims’ — thoughts appeared 
to be running on pits (probably ‘‘ the pits of darkness”) from the 
force with which he accented the antepenult (according to his 
pronunciation) of the suggestive adjective. Mr. Marston was a 
fine liver and still kept up the style of life practiced in former 
years by the aristocratic race from which he sprang. His brandies 
and wines were unsurpassed ; his lialls ever open to one and all, 
and as kindly a welcome extended to the beggared outcast as to 
the most distinguished stranger who ever set foot upon his parent 
soil. No benighted traveler had yet been turned cold and hungry 
from his door; and many were the widows and orphans who, when 
overtaken by sickness or distress, had not called in vain for succor, 
and existing upon his bounty, sung his praises for miles around. 

With these extraordinary incentives to the growth of his affec- 
tion, Mr. Sims became suddenly infatuated with the heiress of 
Violet Bank, mid if his heart was not touched, his liver was. He 
was, emphatically, a hiisiness man, and having once conceived a 
venal project, no obstacle nor rebuff could daunt its prosecution. 
His visits became weekly and semi- weekly ; and it was a remark- 
able fact and one extensively commented upon in the kitchen, 
that in his numerous calls, paid at every hour during the after- 
noon, the tea bell invariably caught him just on the point of 
leaving; but what was more remarkable still, he never went, nor 
did he until the stars were out and mine host had been toasted in 
a ruby draught. 

Myra was in a dilemma. The unspeakable aversion with which 
his first visit had inspired her had only increased with time and 
intercourse. She was more and more disgusted every day, and 
in her utter detestation of his name and presence, his manners 
appeared more proletarian and his society more odious. The pro- 
pinquity of their residences rendered open variance the reverse of 
pleasant, but her upright nature knew no such word as dissimula- 
tion, hence she made no attempt to conceal her dislike; on the 
contrary, studied to convince him of the estimation in which he 


52 


MYKA. 


was held. She practiced upon him the most unmistakable sliglits, 
and whenever an opportunity occurred, devoted herself ex- 
clusively to his brother, whose visits were scarcely less frequent,, 
and who was indebted to the flattering comparison for his present 
popularity rather than to any special merit or personal attraction 
on his part. He was, in the meantime, in no way discouraged 
however. He remarked the growing intimacy between Myra and 
Henry with genuine satisfaction, witliout so much as a jealous 
twinge. He introduced for solace and encouragement a system 
of reasoning, and was wont to soliloquize on this wise: “Love is 
ever shy; she avoids me, therefore she is in love with me. Quod 
erat demonstrandum. Keep your eyes open, Rodolphus, my boy,. 
‘Faint heart never won fair lady.’” 

That any one could fail to be enamored of Mr. Rodolphus Sims 
was a possibility that had never suggested itself; and while he 
was desirous that the propitious event should take place as early 
as practicable, he still preserved a just regard for propriety, liv- 
ing in bright anticipations of the thrice blessed day that should 
witness the transfer of deeds and donations. 

The assiduous attentions with which he annoyed her subjected 
her to the constant raillery of the entire home circle, servants not 
excepted, and her father and Lionel were incorrigible. At length,, 
becoming desperate, she appealed to the former, declaring that 
she could stand their ridicule no longer; and that if that “stupid 
clown ” did not desist in his persecutions, she would do or say 
something rude — something he could no fail to understand. 

That gentleman only laughed the merrier, flnding a fresh source 
of amusement in her annoyance. He protested against any rash 
threats, and consoled her by telling her that if young ladies would 
make themselves so attractive as to captivate objectionable young 
gentlemen, they must be content to endure the consequences.. 
Had she been less truthful, she might, upon occasion of his 
visits, have pleaded “ a headache,” but she could not act a false- 
hood, be the alternative as disagreeable as it might. 

Had Mr. Sims’ taste been more aesthetic, his conversation more 
elegant and his mien more graceful, he might have been a more 
successful competitor for the prize he so confldently thought to 
win. As it was, his feet were too large, and his hands wore an 
embarrassed air of being always in the way. Myra’s sympathies 


THE MESSRS. SIMS. 


53 


were aroused in behalf of the unfortunate vvatcli-ehain, and she 
wished in her heart that he could leave the troublesome append- 
ages at home. 

All her efforts having proved futile, she (dianged from cold to 
frigid, from dignified to taciturn ; and Mr. Kodolphus, notwith- 
standing his incipient vauntings, could not suppress some slight 
misgivings when brought face to face with the object of his ado- 
ration. He coul.d not interpret her conduct toward himself, and 
began to distrust his former ratiocinations as possibly fallacious. 
He found wooing an heiress a more formidable undertaking than 
he had anticipated; he became uneasy, and resolved upon chang- 
ing his tactics. To this end, he added hair oil and perfume to the 
otlier attractions of his toilet; fell from arrogance to humility 
itself, with a ludicrous attempt at seeming tenderness. The last 
method proving more ineffectual than the first, he was on the verge 
of despair when a happy thought revived his sinking hopes. He 
had somewhere heard that the surest road to the daughter’s heart 
was to gain the ill-will of the mother; he determined to put it to 
the test. Under tliis delusion, it was amusing to watch the purblind 
lover, entirely ignoring the gentle mother, while to the daughter 
he was obsequiously deferential. He discovered that the latter 
was fond of music, and ordered a violin forthwith. He was sure 
that in a short while and with a little practice he would become 
proficient, since Mr. Eustace (a young gentleman in the neighbor- 
hood) had learned to play in three weeks, and he was certain that he 
had as much sense as M^’. Eustace. In this he was doomed to a 
signal failure; but not to be outdone, he decided upon the culti- 
vation of his voice. Accordingly, he registered his name in a 
vocal class and soothed himself daily into a tranquil siesta to the 
plaintive lullaby of “do, re, me,” etc., etc. But after he had in- 
flicted, serious injuries upon his lungs, the session ended with the 
same unsatisfactory result. 

Autumn had come and gone. The fleecy robes of winter had 
stamped “December” upon the leafless boughs; the summer song- 
ster piped no more his joyous lay, and the chilling blast swept 
o’er a barren landscape. 

Myra and her friends had, meanwhile, kept up an animated 
correspondence, and each fleeting week brought love-laden letters 
from Florence and Henrietta. They were to meet at Violet 


54 : 


MYRA. 


Bank and spend the approaching carnival, which Myra looked 
forward to as impatiently as any six-year-old child. ‘‘ Christmas’’' 
was now the finis to every wish, and "‘when Florence and Henri- 
etta come” the refrain to every song. 


CHAPTER YII. 

AN ENJOYABLE OCCASION. 

EW-YEAR’S eve! Can it be that seven whole days have 



1 elapsed since I welcomed my darling friends to Yiolet 
Bank? It scarcely seems as many hours.” Such was Myra’s 
exclamation as she stood in the dim fire-light of her own room, 
with an arm encircling the waist of each of her school-fellows. 

‘‘ Oh 1 pleasure — ephemeral pleasure ! 


‘ Like the rainbow’s lovely form 
Evanishing amid the storm — 

Nae man can tether time or tide.’ 


And just to think that you will insist upon leaving me to-morrow ! 
I declare, girls! it is too bad. I don’t see how I can give you up, 
and know I shall perish with the blues when you are gone ?” 

“You cannot be half so sorry as I,” said Henrietta, with an 
honest hug. “Dear girl! do you know that this has been one of 
the happiest weeks I ever spent? JSTothing would afford me more 
pleasure than to prolong our visit; but I promised mamma to stay 
no longer, and I cannot break my word to her, you know.” 

“It is quite too heart-rending to think of,” cried Florence. 
Tear-drops glistened in the eyes of blue as she pressed her cherry 
lips to the delicate cheek of her companion. 

“Good Lord! What is yawl about?” It was Aunt Jemima 
who broke in upon these girlish lamentations, as she bustled in, 
lamp in hand, with a wprld of “responsibility” upon her corru- 
gated brow. “Bless my soul! ef I didn’t ’spect to find all of you 
dressed and ready to go in de parlor, and here you is, all three 
standin’ up here in de dark, jest as well satisfied as ef you had all 
day before you. ’Tis long arter dark, mistis; de folks will jest 
be a troopin’ in here present’y, and you certain’y ought to be reader 
to ’ceive ’em.” 


AN ENJOYABLE OCCASION. 


55 


“She is right, girls,” said Myra, disengaging herself and com- 
mencing her toilet; “it is later than I thought. We shall have 
to hurry. We need a lamp. Aunt Jemima; if you are busy, send 
it up by Lily.” 

The old woman hurried out, muttering something about “ dem 
child’en;” she “wondered what did make young gals so thought- 
less,” and she “didn’t know what would ’come of ’em ef ’twon’t no 
ole folks to look after em.” 

Lily, the house girl, whose jetty complexion testified to the ap- 
propriateness of the name, soon made her appearance, and deposit- 
ing the light, began rummaging in her pocket, from the spacious 
depths of which she produced a neat card, upon which was in- 
scribed “Oscar Maurice,” in a firm masculine hand. A crimson 
blush swept over the face and neck of Henrietta, transforming the 
peach-blossom tints into vivid roses, as the girl approached her 
with a grin. 

Lily was garrulous in her importance. “There is a young gen- 
tleman down stairs, ma’am, and a stranger in these parts, ’cause 
I’m certain I never seen him before. I heard the door-bell as I 
was coming up, so stopped and invited him in. He looks like he 
might have been travelling, and I expect he got in on the six 
o’clock train. He asked me if the jmung ladies were in, and told 
me to give that card to Miss Henrietta Brj’ant.” 

“He is the friend of whom you spoke this morning?” said 
Myra, coming to her relief. 

“Yes,” regaining her composure ; “ he is to be my convoy home. 
Florence came by for me, but will return by a different route, 
leaving me without a companion.” 

“Judging from his chirography, I should deem him well worthy 
of his trust,” rejoined her hostess, as she subjected the autograph 
to a more critical inspection. “Were I sufficiently versed in the 
art to divine one’s character by the handwriting, I should say that 
he w^as both honest and brave. I am ready to welcome, and feel 
sure that I shall like any one whom you call Hriend,’ dear Henri- 
etta; but I cannot say that I am glad to see Mr. Maurice, — to- 
night, at any rate, — if for meeting him I am to pay the penalty 
of losing you.” 

The week had indeed slipped by, but neither of our dehutantes 
could tell exactly how. The wealthy citizens of S were re- 


56 


MYKA. 


solved to sustain the reputation which their county had long en- 
joyed, and neitlier trouble nor expense was spared in the celebra- 
tion of the festive holidays. And so it was that our young friends 
found themselves plunged in a social maelstrom, as balls and 
parties were attended in breathless succession. There was scarcely 

a house in B whose doors were not thrown open to receive 

the indefatigable merry-makers, and hardly a person of note for 
miles around who was not precipitated in the dizzy vortex. Even 
Mrs. Harrison, the oldest resident in the place, had not forgotten 
the days of her girlhood, for, notwithstanding the silver crest with 
which seventy winters had crowned her, she still retained within 
her benevolent heart a loving corner for the young and gay. Ho 
one was more ready to contribute to their amusement, and her 
soiree of the evening before was by no means the least enjoyable. 

Mr. Marston proposed finishing the round with what pro- 
mised to be the party of the season. The expectation of the 
fashionable circle was at its height, and he was determined that 
they should not be disappointed. His parties were proverbial. 
Ho one could give more pleasurable entertainments, and whether 
a conversazione or Terpsichorean, he invariable carried off the palm. 
His laurels were never known to wilt, and the general verdict 
upon such occasions had been stereotj^ped into ^^comme il fautP 
Every one had a ^‘splendid time;” no one was ever in a hurry to 
leave, each merry reveler framing some plausible excuse for re- 
maining until etiquette forced him to depart, and at parting the 
hand of the jolly host was subjected to a cordial “squeeze,” ac- 
companied by the wish that he might live to issue tickets for 
many more of a similar character. His universal success was, to 
some, a mystery ; but, like all other mysteries, when understood, 
was simple enough. Being “in peace and charity with all men,” 
he was entirely at ease himself, and possessed the happy knack of 
inspiring his guests with sensations as agreeable as his own. He 
was thoroughly conversant with the laws of hospitality, saw that 
every one knew every one else and that each individual was en- 
tirely satisfied with himself and those around him. 

A deep snow had fallen during the day, and though it had 
ceased as night came on, the leaden clouds still hung low and 
threatening. 

The clock below tolled eight. Myra raised the curtain and 


AN ENJOYABLE OCCASION. 


57 


looked ont. An exclamation burst from her, as airy snowflakes 
sailed noiselessly past, like so many white-winged fairies. 

“Just look, girls! another snow storm. Is it not too bad? Do 
come and see. I am so much afraid that our party will be a 
failure after all. Is it not a grand sight, though? What a frolic 
they are having in mid-air I” 

“Dispel your fears, my dear; timid indeed must be the heart 
that would not brave both wind and storm for the pleasure that 
awaits them,” said Florence, who was adding the factitious bloom 
of rouge to the native freshness of her complexion, and who was 
engaged in a mental criticism of her reflected image as she paused 
between each several application to note the effect with a smile 
of satisfaction. 

They were still speaking when the heavy thud of horses’ hoofs 
rung out upon the frosty air, and as they dashed with headlong 
speed down the frozen carriage-way, each moment brought them 
nearer and nearer, until the sound was prolonged into a continu- 
ous roar, like the roll of distant thunder or the measured tread of 
approaching cavalry. The jingling sleigh-bells were not more 
musical than the silvery peals of rippling laughter that floated 
hither through the stilly night. Brilliant flights of oratory, from 
the attendant cavaliers, were interrupted now and then by a 
frightened scream as a sleigh was occasionally upset by some 
gallant escort, who was vainly endeavoring to watch through the 
darkness the movements of his fair companion rather than those 
of his spirited steed. 

“They are coming!” cried Myra and Henrietta, in a breath. 

“Confess that I am a true prophetess,” said Florence, joining 
them by the window. 

Their mirth became more noisy as they clambered up the slip- 
pery terrace, followed by loud stampings upon the portico, as they 
scraped their snow-clogged boots and brushed away the downy 
fugitives. They arrived in couples and parties of three and four, 
each figure muffled in surtout and furs, which set at defiance the 
winter’s blast. 

Now all was bustle and confusion; each sylph was busy with 
her own toilet. Gentlemen, fearful of being “cut out,” sent up 
their cards, and before the fledging process was completed, each 
popular belle could display a well filled tablet. At length, a mur- 
5 


58 


MYEA. 


mured ready ” was telegraphed through the dressing-rooms, and 
meeting their escorts^in the hall, they descended to the drawing- 
room. 

The library and sitting-room had been thrown into one and con- 
verted for the nonce into a capacious ball-room, while the parlors 
were reserved for such couples as could resist the enticing strains 
of a hass violin^ and preferred a quiet tete-a-tete to the excitement 
and fatigue of their dancing neighbors. Here all was ablaze with 
beauty and splendor. Yule logs crackled cheerily upon the glow- 
ing hearth -stone, the shimmering lights danced upon floral decora- 
tions of every hue, and fell upon the soft carpets in shattered 
rainbows; graceful festoons depended from the portraits of the 
ancient Marstons who smiled down upon the assembly from their 
respective niches, while the conservatory exhaled a mingling of ex- 
quisite odors. 

The elite of S had turned out e7i masse; ladies of every 

age and in every phase of belleship, from the larva stage of fifteen 
to the bedizened butterfly of forty, about whom white waistcoats, 
dresscoats and mustachios circumambulated in imposing phalanx. 

Mr. Marston clain-ied the right of “opening the ball,” and in- 
variably led his wife to the floor, despite her earnest protestations. 

Myra was not disappointed in her preconceived opinion of Hen- 
rietta’s friend. There was a certain frankness in his manner that 
won her confidence at once, and a smile, as sunny as Henrietta’s 
own, that gave a peculiar charm to an otherwise handsome coun- 
tenance. She had heard from the latter that he was excessively 
fond of her favorite amusement, and recognizing Ins claims as a 
stranger, had placed his name at the head of her list. She had 
eyes, and she had penetration ; she was not slow to interpret a cer- 
tain young man’s quiet deference, nor the unwonted crimson with 
which a few low-spoken words suffused a soft, dark cheek. She 
drew her own conclusions and kept her own counsel. 

There was a troubled shadow in the soul-lit eyes. At her 
mother’s request he had come down to attend Henrietta home on 
the morrow, with no suspicion of the evening’s gaiety. He felt 
annoyed (and a sweeping glance took in the scene around him) at 
finding himself an uninvited and stranger guest in the halls of 
mirth and revelry. He was saying something to this effect, when 
Myra cut his apologies short with easy assurance. 


AN ENJOYABLE OCCASION. 


59 


The band struck up an enlivening air, and as the preliminary 
chords resounded through tlie crowded apartments, the general 
buzz for a moment subsided. 

Oscar’s depression vanished with the first note. “ Blessings on 
the man who first invented music,” he said to his partner. 

“Amen !” returned she gayly. 

“ It would move stones.” 

“I have heard of Orpheus.” 

“Those notes are certainly entrancing.” 

“Our county is famed for its music.” 

“ You are, like myself, no. lukewarm participant in this innocent 
pastime,” with a keen glance ; “ I read it in your eyes.” 

“‘The man that hath no music in himself,’ — you know the rest. 
And — ” she subjoined laughingly, “if you will pardon a vulgar 
phrase, I will, for the sake of variety, fall from the sublime to 
the ridiculous, and say with the old gentleman, whose indolence 
suggested an abridgment of his orisons: ‘Them’s my sentiments.’ 
Music has a novel effect upon me; it vibrates through every sen- 
tient atom of my being, lifts me above the groveling realities of 
life, and inspires me with higher and nobler emotions. I am 
never so happy as when listening to the weird discourse of some 
witching melody, and, when under the spell of its enchantment, to 
harbor an unkind thought or feeling toward any living creature 
were no less an impossibility than to convey to another any ade- 
quate conception of my sensations. I must give vent to my feel- 
ings in some way, so have no alternative but to transfer the 
quickening heart-throbs to my feet, and tone down my intoxica- 
tion by fatigue and exhaustion.” 

“What a galaxy of fair faces!” observed Lionel, joining them; 
“and what an incomprehensible mysterj^ that a man could exist, 
surrounded by so much grace and beauty, and find himself at the 
age of forty still pursuing his solitary pilgrimage upon the lonely 
turnpike of single blessedness.” 

“Perhaps their charms are so manifold and so equally dis- 
tributed, that you find it difficult to center your affections,” said 
Oscar gallantly. 

The merriment was at its height. Momus and Terpsichore had 
joined hands, and with combined energies ordained that the even- 
ing should be one of unparalleled delight. Jocund voices were 


60 


MYRA. 


wafted hitlier from every quarter — small talk and pretty nothings 
being largely in the ascendency. Gentleman twirled their mus- 
tachios, and made soft speeches to their fair companions, who 
listened with downcast eyes and blushing cheeks, while occasionally 
a sentimental pair, on suddenly discovering that “ the rooms were 
too warm and the air oppressive,” strolled out upon the veranda 
to watch “the immaculate snowflakes.” 

Florence was in her element; she pirouetted and coquetted, 
stumbling upon a flirtation at every turn in the musical meander. 

Presently they were summoned to the refreshment-room, where 
the long tables groaned beneath their loads of sumptuous viands, 
the “substantials” being a leading feature. This was followed 
by another and daintier feast, and the ladies were not suflered to 
withdraw as toast after toast was recited to the accompaniment of 
champagne stopples. 

A little later, Myra was making a prefatory circuit of the rooms 
upon the arm of Mr. Eustace before joining in the dance whicli 
was then forming, when tlie current of her conversation was turned 
by a laughing observation from her companion. 

“I have sometimes. Miss Marston, beheld specimens of the am- 
phibious creation, but Sims, poor fellow, appears to have no ele- 
ment at all.” 

Following his eyes, she discovered Mr. Henry dejected and for- 
lorn, “like some lone bird without a mate,” wlio, having taken 
covert in tlie shadows of the folding-doors, was gazing with a 
whipped-dog expression after Florence’s graceful flgure, as she 
glided past in a bewildering waltz, struck, not so much by her 
face as by the diamond pendants that hung from her brooch and 
ear-drops. 

“What a dismal picture!” was her comment, turning aside her 
head to hide the smile that played upon her red lips. “ Looks so 
ill-befltting the time and occasion must be allowed no longer.” 

Approaching him, she said pleasantly, “You look lonesome, 
Mr. Sims; pray! how are you enjoying the evening?” 

“ Oh ! ah !” with a sudden start, and blushing violently ; “ I am 
getting on very well, thank you ; that is,— oh ! ah ! — I am having 
a tolerable time,” stammered Mr Henry, in great confusion. 

“ But why are you not dancing ? Are not you a votary ? 
you prejudiced against it?” 


or are 


AN ENJOYABLE OCCASION. 


61 


“Oh, no!” he expostulated, recovering himself, “I should be 
only too delighted; but I am awkward, you see, and don’t know 
the steps; so, being a stranger, I dislike to ask any of the ladies 
to be my partner.” 

“An obstacle easily removed; you shall plead that excuse no 
longer,” her sympathies aroused, despite her amusement. “Mr. 
Eustace, can I take the liberty?” erasing his name. 

“Provided I am honored with the next,” stipulated the- ex- 
partner, with a martyr air. ^ 

Mr. Henry was highly flattered by tlie unlooked-for honor, and 
bowed and smiled an embarrassed acknowledgment. 

There was a general elevation of eyebrows as they took their 
places, followed by the significant cough, consequent upon the 
simultaneous raising of fans and bouquets. She commenced her 
instructions with easy confidence — a delicate hint now and then, 
or a mild suggestion. Much to her chagrin, and the intense 
amusement of the crowd, however, her pupil pro tempore proved 
himself peculiarly refractory — not in will, but in motion. Had 
he been blindfolded and turned loose in the Cretan labyrinth, his 
face could not have worn an expression of more hopeless per- 
plexity. He floundered about in agonizing bewilderment, re- 
minding one of a wild mustang, unknown alike to rein or rider, 
which, finding itself in the midst of savage sportsmen, meets a 
lasso in every reckless plunge. The musicians, no longer able to 
preserve their measure, now descended from the stand, adding 
energy to skill in the endeavor to keep time with his wayward 
gambols. 

“Your magnanimity has prompted you to assume a Sisyphus 
undertaking,” whispered Lionel, as he brushed past her; “the 
stone has a decided proclivity backward.” 

He had scarcely finished speaking when their attention was 
arrested by an affected scream from the owner of a mutilated 
train, Mr. Henry iiaving, in one of his random strides, severed 
skirt and corsage, to the unutterable vexation of tliat fastidious 
young lady. The innocent and unfortunate perpetrator was en- 
tirely overcome by this last hapless blunder; his hair hung close 
and dank about the heated brow, upon which large beads of per- 
spiration stood like pearls upon a crimson billow. His wits de- 
serting him, and his embarrassment increasing, he found himself 


62 


MYRA. 


no longer able to brave the brewing storm; hastening to offer an 
incoherent apology, he heat a precipitate retreat, retiring in dis- 
gust. 

Mr. Rodolphus had passed the most delightful of delightful 
evenings. Lulled into blissful dreams of landed estates, 
thoroughbred cattle, improved poultr}^, and sparkling wines by 
that magical nepenthe, “supper,” he was content to see his in- 
tended bride monopolized by others, finding, as he did, the society 
of the smoking-room much more congenial. Stretched at full 
length upon a lounge, he entertained himself with glancing over 
the Times, and discussing the rise and fall of stocks with the 
middle-aged gentlemen who occasionally wandered to and fro. 

Morning! The last merry party had bidden a reluctant adieu. 
Florence and Oscar stood chatting by the mantel; Henrietta 
was singing a farewell song for Lionel, who leaned with careless 
abandon upon the opposite side of the piano. Myra opened the 
casement and looked out upon a cloudless sky, from which had 
vanished all traces of the evening’s storm — the distant hills, with 
their spotless robes and gern-laden evergreens, glistening in the 
matin sunlight. 

“I discovered a secret last night,” she said to Henrietta, when 
they were alone. 

“I know what you mean,” was the frank, but modest reply. 
“And you like him?” anxiously. 

“ Yery much.” 

“I am so glad,” said the warm-hearted girl, lier maiden diffi- 
dence put to fiight by the other’s sincerity. “Oscar and I are 
old acquaintances, and have loved since childhood. He is an 
orplian, with no other fortune than an unimpeachable character 
and a noble heart; mamma is a widow, you know, and as she will 
have the younger children to provide for, will not, of course, be 
able to help us. But,” she added, “he is young, and strong, and 
willing, and,” with a tender light in the soft black eyes, “ we are 
content to wait.” 


Myra’s first season. 


63 


CHAPTER YIIL 
MYKA’S FIEST SEASON. 

C ONTRARY to Myra’s expectation, there was no cessation of 
gayeties, no depressing ennui upon the departure of her 
friends. The rage for amusement was peculiarly contagious; the 
more remote circles had caught the infection; there were balls, 
parties, hops and sociables without number; besides concerts and 
private theatricals, in which the amateur performers vied in talent 
and popularity. These she entered into with the rapturous de- 
light of a novice, who is at the same time young, and ardent in 
temperament; and to those who had known her from childhood, 
it was interesting to note the zest with which she began a social 
career opening before her like a radiant vista, roseate in its Orient 
flushes, brilliant with the iridescent glow of youthful promise — no 
less an entliusiast in her present pursuits than she had formerly 
been in art or the investigation of ontological plienomena. Her 
native acumen, grace of manner and ready repartee had won for 
her a host of admirers, and ere she was aware, she awoke to find 
herself the cynosure of every circle, the observed of all observers. 
Her acting was “ artistic,” her dancing ‘‘ perfect,” her singing 
^‘divine,” her conversation “a pellucid stream of wit and pathos.” 
Gentlemen of every age, from the imperialed youth to tlie digni- 
fied bachelor (which latter, having arrived at years of discretion, 
had learned to appreciate and admire, inasmuch as he had passed 
through every phase of yearning and heart-thirst, as year after 
year he had watched, like Tantalus, that for which he pined al- 
ways in tempting proximity, yet just beyond his grasp) flitted 
about the radiant thing like moths about a burning taper — those 
honored with her preference loud in their eulogiiims, while less 
fortunate contestants quietly withdrew, with singed wings and a 
secret longing for revenge. 

With these manifold and antagonistic claims upon her time and 
thoughts, Myra found her good resolutions and cherished schemes 
for intellectual advancement being rapidly swept away by the 
gale of pleasure. For a while she reconciled her conscience with 


64 


MYRA. 


the assurance that they were only deferred, to be prosecuted with 
two-fold zeal at some more convenient season; but the “more 
convenient season ” nev^er came, and, like the seeds that fell among 
thorns, they were choked out, and finally abandoned; for not- 
withstanding her superiority of head and heart over the generality 
of her sex, she was, nevertheless, a vmnan. She had had a taste 
of the intoxicating cup and found it sweet; she was not wholly 
invulnerable to tlie delicate adulation of an admiring world. 

The leading belles, especially those who had reigned supreme 
through several seasons past, regarded her as an interloper, and 
disliked her accordingly. Too politic, however, to give utterance 
to their real sentiments, — the betrayal of which would have been 
fatal to their already waning popularity, — they equipped them- 
selves in defensive armor (amiability), and commenced the siege, 
compliments being the most efficient weapon in this species of 
warfare. Their verdict was one and the same. “ She was a very 
superior young lady,” according to their own account ; a heau 
ideal of beauty and perfection. Intriguing mothers wdth mar- 
riageable daughters, to say nothing of that portion of the com- 
munity so remarkable for charity and sweetness of disposition, 
and universally known as “old maids with younger sisters,” looked 
on with proud disdain and lofty disapproval, their circumscribed 
intellects propounding meanwhile such queries as, “ They won- 
dered what the young men could see to admire about that ah’l! 
For their parts, they had never been able to discover, in person or 
conversation, anything that was either witty or attractive. In 
beauty, she was not to be compared with Nettie or Amelia; and 
as for her songs, which were so loudly encored, thej^ were only 
too disgusting. She sang with entirely too much expression; her 
gesticulations were decidedly theatrical, and she had been foolishly 
flattered into believing herself a prirna-donna. It was an unpar- 
donable innovation upon the laws of society for a young lady^ 
under any circumstances, to betray symptoms of emotion; and 
still less unbearable, when they belield in the transgressor a giddy 
school-girl, confident and elate in the whirl of her first season. 
But, then, there w^as no accounting for tlie freaks of the sterner 
sex — their absurd tastes and silly infatuations; and after all, the 
poor dupes were to be pitied, and deserved their sincere com- 
miseration for being so easily taken in.” 


myra’s first season. 


65 


They further declared that she was Quixotic and intrepid, and 
in their compassionate pity for the “poor dupes,” these worthy 
ladies succeeded in bringing to light such a catalogue of imper- 
fections as to discover in their victim an embodiment of all 
human frailties, a prodigy of shortcomings. 

There was even yet another class of individuals who looked 
with scarcely less unfavorable ej^es upon the fair offender; and as 
they constitute a sect largely predominant in every community, 
are too generally understood to need explanation here. They 
comprise a band of supercilious damsels, who are characterized 
by a tenacious affection for the high-back cliairs and long sofas^ 
which are usually strung longitudinally around the dancing-rooms, 
and are avoided as measles or hydrophobia by the gayer portion of 
the assemblage. The occupants of these “reserved seats” are 
known by ill-natured people under the suggestive sobriquet of 
“wall-flowers;” we say “ill-natured people,” and might rightly 
add sacrilegious too ; for is it not sacrilege to laugli at, and make 
light of, the dispensations of Providence? Woman is so predis- 
posed that she must have something to lean on. She is created 
with an affectionate, clinging disposition, that longs to twine its 
dainty tendrils about some stouter pillar. If, then, no masculine 
arm is tendered to bear the fragile burden, she flees for refuge to 
the friendly “ wall;” and in a stately arm-chair, beneath its kindly 
shelter, her work is flnished ; her search is ended, for she has found 
a haven of rest. The class to which we allude never dance, and 
ofier as a plea “conscientious scruples.” Such being the case, they 
had much better have remained at home, it being highly improper 
to patronize and encourage by their presence an amusement, par- 
ticipation in which either their church or their conscience forbids. 
By and by some wicked urchin, whose juvenile curiosity dictates 
the qui vive of both eyes and ears, suggests as a more plausible 
reason, that they have not been invited; and the rumor is circu- 
lated, as the latest intelligence, by significant nods, winks and 
coughs. This may appear a little hard, and there ai-e always some 
gentlemen present who are willing to play the agreeable, and do 
their duty by all parties; but when they compare the appalling 
phalanx with their own slender troops, they become dismayed by 
the inequality of forces; and fearing an evening’s martyrdom 
without prospect of relief, they turn, like their companions, to 


66 


MYRA. 


seek some more isolated fair. One of the most striking character- 
istics of the “wall-flower,” is not only the desire, hut the ability, 
to “behave.” She vouchsafes no discourse with her companions 
in misfortune, lest others might suspect that she was not enjoying 
such perfect beatitude as the nonchalant air and languishing eyes 
are intended to portray. She never speaks except wdien some fugi- 
tive knight, in making a hasty exit, drops a passing compliment upon 
her “charming appearance this evening,” upon occasion of which, 
she raises languidly her head and listens with a sigh! And so she 
sits and behaves, and behaves and sits, until the last carriage rolls 
away; and in recounting to her “dear mamma” the events of the 
■evening, she vents her latent envy, stating, with unerring accu- 
racy, not only the precise number of courting couples present, 
but the prospects also of each anxious suitor. She reviews, criti- 
cally, the costume of each lady, never omitting a special mention 
of those attired in made-over silks or borrowed jewelry. “Miss 
A.’s hair was arranged so unbecomingly; and Miss B.I I only 
wish you could have seen her; she just looked ^perfect frightP 
She becomes quite enthusiastic over Miss C.’s beau, whom she 
declares to be the “unadulterated essence of stupidity.” “I de- 
clare !” she exclaims in genuine solicitude ; “ I don’t see how she 
<ian tolerate the attentions of such a creature! He is so insipid 
that his mere presence would be, to me^ perfectly intolerable.” 

Mark me, reader! wdienever you see one of these lackadaisical 
maidens of doubtful attractions, whose thoughts are so occupied 
with her female friends that she is enabled to detail what each one 
wore, how each one looked, what eacli one said and did, you may 
set it down as an indubitable fact, tliat she has had little else to 
engage her attention. 

Myra, meanwhile, blissfully unconscious of the envy and ill- 
nature which her popularity so generally excited, re-entered the 
field with cloudless brow and unbattered crest, accepting the 
homage of her subjects with an easy dignity that baffled the most 
prudish and malevolent of the estimable sisters. Lionel was fre- 
quently her escort upon such occasions, and no one enjoyed her 
triumph more than he. 

Mr. Henry was spending the evening at Violet Bank a few days 
after the episode in which he figured so conspicuously in the last 
chapter, when Myra, struck with his unusual reticence and the 


mtra’s first season. 


67 


wistful look with which he now and then regarded her, readily 
perceived that some secret trouble had made war upon his placid 
humor. Even the tea bell failed to enliven; he was silent and 
preoccupied; ate little; sipped his coffee as though he no longer 
relished its aromatic savor; and blushed violently wlien Mrs. 
Marston asked if he would take a second cup. “A change had 
-come o’er the spirit of his dream,” the meaning of which she was 
at a loss to conjecture, until, encouraged by her kindness, he was 
led to unburden his mind in a full confession concerning his present 
unhappy state. He managed to make her understand (not with- 
out great trepidation, however) how his heart had been won by 
her beautiful friend; how his attachment had been growing daily 
since the first time he beheld her; how he believed that he never 
<‘Ould be happy without her; how he trembled for the success of 
his suit, and how his whole future hung upon the present issue. 
“Would not Miss Marston intercede for him?” 

His voice was low and broken, and the incoherent sentences, 
stammered forth at long intervals, were abruptly left off. His 
listener very politely overlooked the unrounded periods, and with 
a woman’s tact, herself supplied the missing links of the touching 
recital. 

His expression, as he sat gazing abstractedly into the smolder- 
ing embers, was ludicrously affecting, and Myra felt her own po- 
sition to be by no means enviable; for while she knew nothing de- 
rogatory in regard to the young stranger, she felt that this was a mat- 
ter in which she had no right to interfere. And supposing slie had 
it in her power to grant his petition, she knew how ill-suited such 
a pair would be, and tlie consequences were not pleasant to think 
of. Hot that she entertained fears for Florence, knowing, as she 
did, that one must be more personable than the present aspirant 
who could awaken a responsive thrill in her friend’s romantic 
heart; on the contrary, she knew that her indifference bordered 
hard upon dislike, and that his misplaced affections could lead to 
nothing but annoyance to the one, wounded pride and blighted 
hopes to the other. She could but pity the unhappy victim, and 
fain would speak some word of comfort to cheer him in his lonely 
hour. 

She explained to him that she could have no influence with her 
friend in such matters, and that his request would be equally un- 


68 


MYRA. 


reasonable even were it otherwise; that this was an affair in whicb 
no one could help him, and advised him, as the surest way of put- 
ting an end to his suspense, to visit her at her home, and know 
his fate at once. 

He followed her advice to the letter, and wlien he called, on his 
return, to deliver an answer to a note, of which he had been the 
bearer, tliere was no need for questions; she read his doom in the 
very look with which he greeted her — a species of dejection pe- 
culiarly characteristic of a defeated politician on the day after elec- 
tion. 

He came in time to be more friendly and less reserved than 
heretofore, and seemed to look to this one, and only confidante of 
his disappointment to cicatrize the wound cleft by the fair archer. 
Myra did what she could to console him, and was gratified ere 
long to find his appetite gradually improving, which circumstance 
she welcomed as a precursor of his habitual tranquillity. 

Lionel rated her upon the growing intimacy. “He will do well 
enough in his place,” he said, “ as an ordinary acquaintance ; but 
believe me, Myra, he is unworthy of your friendship.” 

“I am sorry for him,” she persisted. “He seems to be well 
disposed, and inclined to be friendly with me; if I can exert a 
good influence over him, can contribute to his pleasure or happi- 
ness, I see no reason why I should withhold it. We sliould make 
many allowances for him, Lionel ; he has no sister, and doubtless 
feels awkward and embarrassed in our easy, informal society. 
Besides, I have an impression that his home life is not pleasant;, 
every one can see that he is ill-treated, and intimidated by that 
big chuff' of a brother.” 

“ Friendly !” echoed the other, “and who would dare be other- 
wise? Who would not esteem it a privilege to be Miss Marston’s 
friend? The gay, gifted and caressed, the child of wealth and 
luxury, the fondling of society and idol of her home. Of course 
he is your friend; but let poverty or misfortune overtake you, he 
would care as little for you as for the veriest pauper who ever 
plead for public charity. I have studied them carefully, and 
mark me, Myra, his brother is, if I mistake not, the better char- 
acter of the two. He has at least one redeeming trait — he makes 
no attempt to conceal his real sentiments, and pretends to no 
higher aspirations than the accumulation of riches. But this 


MYRA S FIRST SEASON. 


69 


Henry aims at iiniveisal popularity. I have watched him in 
crowds, and have heard every subject you could mention discussed 
in his presence, but never yet have I the first time known him to 
express an opinion either for or against. He is neither fish nor 
fowl, but patiently awaits tlie popular voice, and follows in the 
wake. He is no less a worshiper of the ‘almighty dollar’ than 
his brother, but has too much policy to proclaim it to the world ; 
he takes care never to commit himself for fear the current might 
change when too late to recant. The elder recognizes but one 
God; Henry bows to two. He has erected within liis sanctuary 
a golden image; at its feet kneels a cringing figure, upon the brow 
of which is traced the gaudy superscription ‘ public opinion.’ He 
fears to offend the awful deity, so prays witliout ceasing to the 
lesser, imploring her intercession, and offering up his orisons in 
the language of Ruth: ‘Entreat me not to leave thee, or tore- 
turn from following after thee; for whither thou goest, I will go; 
and where tliou lodgest, I will lodge; thy people shall be my peo- 
ple, and rhy God my God.’” 

“Fie! Lionel,” cried his companion, in surprise; “you shock 
and astonish me. What a speech from the lips of a Christian 
philanthropist I A sentence so harsh is equally unlike and un- 
worthy of you. His reticence arises from excessive modesty.” 

“ Modesty, forsooth !” 

“And to prove that your maturer judgment is, for once, at fault, 
only remember his recent attachment. Florence is not rich, I am 
sure; yet ho lov^ed her, nevertheless. How do you reconcile this 
contradictory circumstance with your estimate of his charac- 
ter?” 

“Easily enough,” was the calm reply. “If Miss Stillbury is 
not an heiress, Henry Sims is none the wiser. It was reported 
during her stay that her sire was vastly wealthy, as it is quite the 
fashion nowadays to claim for every stranger who visits distant 
friends, more especially if the fortunate party be a lady, not merely 
young and pretty, but beautiful and attractive. Her style of dress, 
to say nothing of the jewels she wore, seemed to confirm the ru- 
mor; and while I knew it to be false, deemed it not my duty to 
contradict it. Sims, no doubt, has heard the same, and since, his 
capture is generally known, no one cares to undeceive him. 

“No, no, my little friend, your motives are the best; I appre- 


70 


MYRA. 


ciate and commend; but argue as jou may, you cannot disprove 
my former assertion. He displays equal forethought, and emu- 
lates, in his daily life, the shipwrecked Hibernian who prayed one 
moment to Jehovah and the next to the devil, because ‘Faith! and 
he couldn’t tell who§e hands he might fall into.’” 

“Well! may be so,” (so these contentions always ended); “I 
respect your opinions, but I can’t think that you do him jus- 
tice.” 

Mr. Rodolphus had, in the meantime, made little progress in 
his wooing. After a satisfactory test, finding, to his dismay, his 
last tactics decidedly the most injudicious he had yet adopted, he 
wheeled about, and from seeming hardly conscious of the mother’s 
existence, became, not only attentive, but very attentive, studi- 
ously attentive. Indeed, so diligent were his efforts to remove 
any unfavorable impressions made upon that lady’s mind by past 
errors, that it would have been difficult for a disinterested party 
to determine to which of the two he contemplated offering his 
heart and hand (the latter being something considerable). It was 
the beginning of February when he conceived the idea of disclos- 
ing to his dulcinea the tenor of his sentiments through a fitting 
emblem of his impassioned heart. 

Next in consideration came the probable outlay. He turned it 
over in his mind, concluding with an ominous shake of the sandy 
locks and a shade of melancholy altogether new to him. 

A happy expedient suggested itself. What could be more ap- 
propriate or effective than the touching lines of a tender acrostic,, 
with love for its prompter and genius for its amanuensis? Strange 
he had not thought of this before! True, he had never attempted 
a poem, but he was sure it must be very simple, from the fact that 
he had once been quite intimate with a boy who wrote verse witlv 
the same facility as prose, and he was certain that he had as much 
sense as the gentleman in question, and could compete in this as 
in other attainments. Other people wrote poetry, why should 
not he? 

Mr. Sims rejected the ancient proverb, Poeta 7iascitur, non 
fitP “Bosh! humbug!” Incased in his impenetrable amour 
propre, Mr. Rodolphus Sims was — in his estimation — without peer 
or parallel, and would show to advantage in any arena in which 
he chose to exercise his talents. Arming himself with paper 


MYRA^S FIRST SEASON. 


71 


and standish, he sought the quiet of his own chamber, and be- 
took him to his task. 

As a prefatory step to this novel undertaking, he wrote the let- 
ters of the name in orthographic order, thus : 

M 

Y 

K 

A, — and viewed the result with critical complacency. 

So far, so good ; the skeleton was without fault. Now for the 
filling out. 

“May this messenger of love — ” he wrote with a fluency that 
would have done credit to the most gifted poet of olden days. 

“Y — a sudden halt. 

“Y , Y — meditatively. 

“ Y , Y ,” — he could get no further. His dictionary was 

brought out. 

“Yacht — Yachting — Yam — Yankee — Yap — Yard,” — in a loud 
undertone, running through the columns commencing with Y, — 
and so on to the end of the list. 

He was no better off than before. He could find nothing suited 
to his taste ; the word he wanted was not there. “A stupid book.” 

“Y , Y ,” — ’twas no good; Pegasus had sprained his 

wing; he could not soar. 

“Y , Y ,” desperately. 

“Dog gone it!” muttered Mr. Sims, losing his temper; “what 
in the thunder made the girl go and have a H in her name?” 

“Y , Y ,” despairingly. 

Pshaw I what a simpleton he was for bothering his head over 
such nonsense ! His ideas were a little confused now ; they would 
be clearer by and by. He had a whole week before him; he 
would sleep on it. 

For five consecutive days he pondered in silent agony over his 
unfinished poem ; but all to no purpose. It was evident beyond 
a doubt that he had never drank inspiration from the fount of 
Hippocrene, or otherwise caught the poetic afflatus. The longer 
he conned it, the further he got from the subject; and with head, 
heart and energy, all combined, he never advanced beyond the 
opening line. That fatal “ Y” hung for aye, like leaden weights 
upon the wings of fancy. It stood firm and immutable like “a 


72 


MYRA. 


great gulf fixed,” beyond which all was a chaotic jumble of ideas 
without rhyme, and rhyme without ideas. 

At last, worn out and disgusted, he threw to the winds this 
bootless scheme, and, with a heavy heart, sallied forth to choose 
a fitting substitute. He visited a number of shops, and was shown 
a collection as varied in beauty as in value. St. Valentine ap- 
peared before him in every guise — comic and sentimental, hearts, 
-cupids and floral emblems in endless number and variety. 

Wishing it to ‘‘finish the business,” he selected one of the hand- 
somest, and groaned in spirit as he gave in Exchange a new, crisp 
bill to the smiling clerk, who was, by this time, quite familiar 
with Mr. Sims’ little “eccentricities, ’’.and made a shrewd guess, 
in his own mind, as to the destination of the tender missive. 

In his sanctum again! Another trouble still! “How in the 
mischief is she to know that /sent it?” soliloquized the unfortunate 
youth. “What if, after all, some other fellow should get the 
<;redit of it? Horrible! and all that money gone, too!” 

Another happy idea! “What a luck}^ hit, to be sure! Keep 
your eyes open, Rodolphus, my boy ! ‘ Necessity is the mother of 

invention.’” 

His monogram was carefully traced in one corner of the ample 
envelope, and the stamp fitted neatly over it. 

The auspicious day at Ipngth arrived, and scarcely waiting for 
mail hours to be well over — so impatient was he to learn the result 
of his experiment — he attired himself in his latest importation, 
and turned his steps in the same direction as that taken by his 
“ messenger of love.” 

“Have you received any valentines?” asked Mr. Sims, after a 
few commonplace remarks. 

“None at all,” curtly; 

“What!” exclaimed the astonished Sims; “none at all? Do 
you mean to tell me that you have not received a single valentine 
to-day? Notone?” 

“Not one,” was the phlegmatic rejoinder. “My friends have 
all failed to remember me, or else deemed it undignified to perpet- 
uate a custom so perverted and abused.” 

“Impossible!” cried Mr. Rodolphus in alarm, too much mysti- 
fied by her cool indiflference and unblushing denial to find words 


Myra’s first season. 


73 


in which to express his astonishment. “Impossible, Miss Mars- 
ton ! impossible that any one should fail to remember yoitP 

“True, nevertheless,” absently; too bent upon showing her re- 
pugnance to notice any thing unusual in his manner or address. 

Mr Sims was distrait. The brevity of his visit was the subject 
of much comment for several days afterwards, especially by Aunt 
Jemima, who “hoped de Lord her young mistis had sot that ar 
furrin boy back so fur dat he wouldn’t be always a pokin’ over thar 
at all kinds o’ odd times, when any body wid half sense was 
bleeged to see dat didn’t no body at de place hab no use fur him.” 

By the time he arrived at home, his passion had reached its 
acme, and he spent his ill-humor indiscriminately upon all with 
whom he came in contact. He retired to his room at an early 
hour, much to the relief of the rest of the family, and finally fell 
asleep amidst alternate execrations upon “that girl,” and lieart- 
rendino* lamentations over “his lost bill.” 

The elucidation of what Mr. Sims termed an “ inexplicable 
enigma,” was simple enough. Mrs. Fudge, the village postmis- 
tress, was a lady of an enquiring mind. Her father had remarked 
the same in childhood, and had purchased for her a book entitled 
“Enquire Within.” She held in reverence his parental teachings, 
and had never forgotten the lessons of early days. Mr. Moses 
Fudge, the soi-disant postmaster, was a meek, unobtrusive man, 
who spent the greater portion of his life upon the downy 
couch of Somnus, and the residue in practicing humility. We 
say soi-disant postmaster,” since, through indolence and 
amiability, he had, in reality, long since sunk, to all intents and 
purposes, into an agreeable nonentity, the duties of his ofiice hav- 
ing been unconsciously assumed by his active little partner, his 
name being now used, merely as a matter of form, in the signing 
or endorsement of official documents. 

Mrs. Fudge had achieved her destiny, having attained the top- 
most round of conjugal felicity. What could be more desirable 
than to be keeper of a country postoffice? What position could 
ofPer a better opportunity for acquiring information, or a more ex- 
tended range over which to disseminate the same? She was a 
small woman, remarkable for her deftness and industry, and not- 
withstanding, like “Willie’s wife,” “her nose and chin they 
threatened ither,” the danger was not so imminent as to suspend 


6 


74 


MYEA. 


the operations of the busy little newsmonger between the pro- 
jecting members. She was better posted upon the pecuniary 
obligations of its citizens and the love matches in prospective 
than any otlier lady in the village. She served np to her as- 
sociates the daintiest dishes of on dity to say nothing of the 
current items communicated to distant friends through the 
medium of postal cards, more especially if their promulgation 
would be in any way detrimental to the interest or standing of 
her more popular neighbors. 

She had, upon the present occasion, been struck with the pe- 
culiar style of the package, and divining its contents, decided upon 
a closer inspection. To hold it over a basin of boiling water until 
the seal was thoroughly moist, was the work of a moment; then 
a delicate blade was called into requisition, and the end was ac- 
complished. It was a nice process, but time and practice had 
rendered Mrs. Fudge entirely aufait^ so that now she might in- 
dulge her curiosity ad libitum^ without fear of detection. 

The most gratifying scene in this interesting pantomime was 
about to be enacted, wlien the servant from Violet Bank 
called for the family mail. The half-sealed envelope was dexter- 
ously slipped into an open Testament lying conspicuously near, 
and delivered on the morrow, reported: “overlooked’’ on the day 
previous; a phrase fraught, in the present instance, with a deeper 
signilication than the words — in their general acceptation — would 
imply. 

Myra was somewhat surprised at its untimely reception. “ Some 
far-off friend had perliaps remembered her.” 

She was lost in admiration of its beauty and elegance, and was 
wondering who might be the probable sender; she examined again 
the postmark and address. Her eyes fell at length upon the stamp, 
which appeared to have been slenderly put on, and considerably 
rubbed by its excursion in the post-bag. She picked it off ab- 
sently — with no suspicion of there being anything behind it — 
when lo! 

What wondrous vision meets her startled gaze to call forth that 
altered look of disappointment and disgust? Behold! the unfor' 
tunate monogram standing in bold relief against the tinted back- 
ground. 

It was beautiful, and it was costly; but every beauty, every 


FENLAND HALL. 


75 


charm had fled in the eyes that loathed the donor. She laid the 
ill-fated valentine npon the glowing coals, which lay in heaps upon 
the hearth before her. The avidions flames danced and crackled 
over their aesthetic victim, queenly in her royal robes ! 

She wrestled with the destroyer, and as, in her dying struggle, 
she breathed hues more nondescript and brilliant, Myra watched 
the cremation with a feeling akin to satisfaction. 


CHAPTER IX. 


FENLAND HALL. 



HE honey-bee once more sips nectar from the lily’s cup, and 


JL hums a canty lay as busily he toils through all the day, to 
gather sweets while lasts the feast of summer roses. 

It is at Fenland Hall, the home of merry, light-hearted Hen- 
rietta, that the three friends find themselves upon this balmy July 
eve. It is a delightful retreat; nothing lordly and imposing like 
Violet Bank, but a large and commodious, though simple structure, 
the very simplicity of wiiich lends an additional charm. There is 
such exquisite harmony in the wide halls, latticed porches, and 
Venetian blinds — rivaling in tint the soft green sward, spread 
like a velvet carpet around it — and the little glade in which it stands, 
skirted by a shady grove of the forest’s own. It is such a dear 
home-nest — so bright and cozy in its various appointments! The 
air is so fresh 1 the water so pure ! and the childish feuds — that 
sometimes will arise among the juvenile members of the house- 
hold — are tried and settled by the merciful arbiter, love. 

Henrietta fills the important position of eldest sister in a family 
of five. Her considerate tenderness toward her widowed mother 
is prompted by filial devotion; toward her younger brothers and 
sisters she is the pattern of affectionate forbearance; while they, 
in turn, look upon “sister” as a matchless paragon of grace and 
goodness. 

Myra and Florence had come down for what Henrietta insisted 
should be “ a long visit.” Two weeks of the allotted period had 
already glided by, and though they had intended remaining only 
through the present month, they had, by the anxious entreaties of 


76 


MYRA. 


their cheery hostess and the earnest solicitations of the many ac- 
quaintances formed during their stay, been prevailed upon to pro- 
tract it — at least another moon. 

“True,” argued the lively importuner, “our neighborhood is not 

so gay as B , and doubtless seems distressingly dull to Florence 

after her winter in the city ; but if you will only promise to do 
as I wish, every thing shall be done to make your visit, a pleasant 
one. The nicest beaux, the county can afford shall constitute 
your retinue; and you forget the picnics — and what not — in 
contemplation, to be given wholly in honor of the ‘attractive 
strangers,’ to say nothing of the approaching conference, which 
is, in itself, a most felicitous occasion.” 

“The fact is,” she went on, •“ there is no telling w'hat you might 
miss by leaving before this all important event. I have attended 
three of these church conventions in my life, and you have no idea 
what rare fun we do have. You see, the church is always crowded 
in the afternoon with the old members and delegates, so the 
younger portion of the congregation remain outside, eat ice 
cream, drink lemonade or soda-water, confabulate with the friends 
whom they have not seen for a year past, and have a gay time 
generally.” 

They sat to-night upon a long portico, running along the en- 
trance hall. Visiting hours over, they were enjoying, without 
fear of intrusion, an old-time chat; they had not yet exhausted 
their budget of news, and each was called upon to give a graphic 
outline of her sayings and doings since last they met. 

Henrietta was bantering Myra upon her supposed conquests, 
when she said playfully: “You should really be more careful, 
dear; and since you have grown to be such a belle, learn to dis- 
pense your favors less promiscuously and with more discretion, 
else you might unconsciously deal a fatal blow to the peace and 
happiness of more than one of our too susceptible youths. Above 
all, let me warn you especially to beware how you smile too* 
sweetly upon Mr. Jerome; that is, unless you wish to wage war 
against the Amazons; and as the fight would be a death struggle 
on the opposite side, the engagement might prove a desperate one; 
so while I would not disparage either the virtues or ability of the 
young divine, yet, unless you prove yourself a more artful strate- 
gist than I think you, the trophy were scarcely worth the hazard.’^ 


FENLAND HALL. 


77 


“ Fiev! Henrietta,” exclaimed her friend, laughingly, in pretended 
displeasure; “don’t be absurd. From whence did you obtain this 
latest acquisition to your harp strings, whose vibrations you must 
deem peculiarly melodious, judging from the frequency with which 
you play upon it? Mr. Jerome cares nothing for me, at least, not 
more than for you or Florence, or any other young lady of his ac- 
quaintance.” 

“ Yery plausible indeed, but by no means conclusive. Miss Mars- 
ton,” retorted, with provoking good humor, the incorrigible teaser, 
whose relish for a joke was not a whit less now than in former 
days, when she used to play pranks on the professors at the Insti- 
tute. 

We don’t happen to be lineal descendants of that unfortunate 
sect who ‘had eyes and saw not, and ears and heard not.’ We 
live in a progressive age, and the two great essentials, apparently 
•SO neglected in olden times, form the leading features in the 
modern ‘ make-up.’ It requires, by no means, a person of extra- 
ordinary discernment to discover that he adores you. Indeed ! it 
is altogether quite romantic; unquestionably a case of love at first 
sight. I declare! I actually pitied him the other night when you 
sung that little Italian song he admires so extravagantly. His 
eyes really looked as though he would devour you; and I felt so 
sorry for him, poor fellow ! because 1 think I know — that ’tis 
‘love’s labor lost.’” 

“Pray! who may be the belligerent damsels to whom you just 
now made such flattering allusion?” asked Florence listlessly, ex- 
changing her chair for a seat upon the door-step, and leaning her 
head languidly upon the lap of Myra. 

“Why, the Philipses, of course!” with a grimace and attitude 
of mock terror, that called forth irresistible cachinnations on 
the part of her companions. 

“What other tribe in these benighted parts so deservedly merits 
the title as they? Don’t you remember the two ladies I pointed 
out to you at church last Sunday, the elderly maiden with a 
dish face, and the younger with a pug nose, the complexion, 
eyes and hirsute appendage of each being of a light drab 
color? Their names are respectively,* Misses Lydia and Janet 
Philips, the Alpha and Omega of the co-operative band. The 
.sisters are eight in number, not one of whom has ever yet been 


78 


MYRA. 


able to gain her own consent to leave the paternal roof-tree ; and 
while it has been whispered by some, that a change of cognomen 
would not be held in such derision as circumstances might lead 
one to suppose, yet, it is only whispered, it being entirely optional 
with them, of course, that they still retain the name of their illus- 
trious ancestors. 

“They are gems in their way; public spirited to such a degree 
as to spare the county the expense of either newspaper or tele- 
graph, since an event unknown to them in twenty-four hours 
after its occurrence, is unworthy of mention. Besides, they 
are greatly inclined to the romantic; allow their imaginations 
full play, and deal not unfrequently in the ideal. A breath 
of gossip, caught by their esurient ears, is like a grain of 
mustard seed lost in a fertile fen, or a spark thrown upon an arid 
prairie. One sister hears a bit of a rumor which sets her active 
brain to thinking, and closes her recital to another — with the con- 
fidential addendum — ‘she wonders if it is possible that thus and 
thus can be so!’ The confidante of her suspicions, in commu- 
nicating it to the next in order, ‘wouldn’t be at all surprised if it 
was so.’ The third ‘ expects it is so,’ while the fourth is ready to 
declare that ‘it is so, to her own certain knowledge, and beyond 
the shadow of a doubt.’ And so it goes, on and on, increasing 
regularly in geometrical progression, until by the time it arrives 
at the end of the line, the last narrator is furnished with a list of 
details, the recounting of which would require nothing less than 
an octavo volume. 

“There’s magic in the name; the very utterance of which 
awakens consternation in every timid breast. Lovers swear un- 
alterable fidelity, farmers control their superstitious neighbors, 
and mothers lull their infants to slumber — all by the name of 
‘ Philips.’ 

“They have a rigorously devout reverence for the church, which 
means — their church, and so they have instituted a consolidated 
coalition to lay siege to the little parson — that is to be — and take 
him prisoner by foul or fair; that is, they intend that the captive’s 
name shall adorn Miss Janet’s bulletin. Their combined energies 
have, for two years past, been directed to this end, — having been 
brought to acknowledge the wisdom of the old woman who as- 
serted that ‘a man was a convenient thing to have in a family,’ — 


FENLAND HALL. 


79 


and they are not likely to look with dove’s eyes upon any one 
who threatens rivalry in that quarter, yon may be sure. 

“Miss Janet, being only twenty-six, is entirely too young to be 
allowed to enter society alone, so she is generally chaperoned by 
Miss Lydia, upon whom the ‘dear child’ relies with a childish 
.naivete that is truly affecting.” 

Mr. Jerome was a student of divinity who was spending his 
vacation with an uncle, residing a few miles from Fenland Hall. 
He expected to complete his theological course during the ensu- 
ing summer, and the frequency of his calls and his predilection 
for Myra, in particular, had been noticed and commented upon 
by others besides Henrietta. 

They were a merrj^ trio, and peals of girlish laughter echoed 
through tlie grove, like a chime of Christmas bells. 

“That the tender romance of the confiding Janet may not end 
in a similar catastrophe as that of her charming sister, is ‘a con- 
summation devoutly to be wished,’ ” continued, with droll mim- 
icry, the sprightly satirist, when their mirth had partially sub- 
sided. 

“How? Which?” enquired her companions in a breath. 

“Nay, nay, my friends; spare me the pain of so sad a recital, 
for the levity of the moment but ill befits the relation of so dire 
a tale.” 

“What? a romance?” 

“Nothing less, my friends.” 

“Let’s have it; give us a benefit,” they demanded eagerly. 

“Then tune your hearts to a more plaintive strain, and drop a 
tear for the unhappy Lydia.” 

“The romance I the romance! Miss Lydia’s romance!” shouted 
her delighted auditors. 

“Well! well!” sighed the laughing narrator; “if I must, I must. 
‘ Vox popuU, vox Dei^ majority rules, so here goes. To maintain 
a proper consideration for the fitness of things, I must adapt my 
language to my theme; and the subject being antiquarian, will 
open my story with the ancient exordium — ‘ Once upon a time.’ 

Miss Lvdia’s Komance. 

“ ‘ Once upon a time’ — that is, some years before the recollection 
of your humble contemporary — Miss Lydia Philips, having already 


80 


MYRA. 


begun to traverse the shady paths of girlhood, had bowed in meek 
submission to the will of an all-wise Providence, and accepting the 
awful fiat without a murmur, had resigned herself to a life of celi- 
bacy, content to pursue her lonely walk, to follow tlie even tenor 
of her way. It was during this interesting era that, upon one ill- 
fated day, like a glad sun-burst upon a sky exhausted with long 
weeping, tliere appeared upon the scene one Mr. Dorson, a hand- 
some, gallant youth, with soul as fresh as the sunny clime from 
wdience he sprung. 

“Oh welcome hour! thrice glorious advent! hailed by the des- 
ponding novice with transports only known among the angels, 
when chaos gives birth to the companion star of some isolated orb 
already started upon its immortal round through the trackless 
wastes of eternity.” 

“Hear her! hear her!” cried her animated listeners, drowning 
her voice in their deafening cheers. 

“It was rumored,” she resumed, recovering herself, “ that he 
had been driven hither tlirough ‘disappointment in love,’ having 
quarrelled with his betrothed, a cousin whom he had loved with 
all the blind devotion of young love’s first dream. Dorson, though 
not of high birth, was well educated and engaging, and claimed 
the position for which nature designed him — in the first circles of 
our society. Piqued and unhappy, he wandered about, aimless 
and absent, vainly endeavoring to discover some balm with which 
to soothe his aching heart. He dashed headlong into gayet}^ and 
dissipation, striving thus to drown his sorrow, but all to no pur- 
pose. At this critical juncture, ready to heal his wounds in a 
newer and less passionate love, man as he was, he could not long 
remain invulnerable to the delicate flattery and sympathetic ten- 
derness of the accomplished worldling. He was handsome, am- 
bitious and rich ; she, though several years his senior and by no 
means pretty, aristocratic and attractive. 

“He wooed and won his partial mistress, and the news was 
spread far and wide. The day had been fixed upon for the 
nuptials, and he had even gone so far as to solicit the daughter 
at the hands of her parents. 

“‘Take her, Dorson, and accept a mother’s blessing. I have 
given you one of my costliest jewels, and you are the only man 
on earth into whose hands I would willingly consign my child,’ 


FENLAND HALL. 


81 


said the gracious ‘ mamma,’ as she placed the hand of the blush- 
ing Lydia in that of the son-in-law elect. 

“His former fiancee had, in the meantime, been among the 
last to hear of the intended alliance. It came upon her, startling 
in its abruptness, like a knell in the halls of merriment. She had 
toyed with her victitn, merely to gratify a foolish vanity, confi- 
dently thinking, the first storm of passion over, to see him again 
trembling and pleading at her feet. Shocked and alarmed, and 
fearful lest she had wrecked her whole future happiness through 
tolly and caprice, she immediately wrote a repentant letter, recall- 
ing her recreant lover. 

“Poor Dorson ! his position was indeed a pitiable one. His 
heart did not return to its old allegiance, since it could not return 
where it had never wavered. From that moment, slight glimmer- 
ings of his own heedless indiscretions began to dawn upon him. 
He recognized the liopelessness of his present situation in all its 
unmitigated bitterness; in a word, he awoke to life and himself. 
He was no longer able to cheat himself with a hollow name, an 
•empty farce, a mere semblance of a passion, false and unreal. 

“Was ever man so ill-beset before? Honor held him in 
her iron fetters, while love summoned him to the bonny land 
■of his nativity. * He became wild and reckless, resolving to loose 
his shackles and free himself at every hazard. 

“ Fie made the gaming table a place of frequent resort, played 
for high stakes, and lost. He made no attempt to conceal from 
his aflianced the knowledge of his downward career, but seemed, 
on the contrary, rather to glory in his fall. She did not upbraid 
him as he had expected, but reasoned and expostulated.. He 
pleaded pecuniary embarrassments and finally poverty, offering, 
with heroic magnanimity, to release her from an engagement 
made under more propitious auspices. She only chided him. 

“‘How little he understood her woman’s heart! Was she not 
willing to sacrifice anything, everything, for the man she loved? 
Had she not rather dwell in a cottage with noble Gilbert than 
abide in a palace where hb was not?’ 

“He visited her in spells of petulant inebriety: fair Lydia wept. 

“Angry and desperate, he was on the eve of putting an end 
to a life that was more than wretched, when his suicidal inten- 
tions ended in a summary dismissal, by a fortunate alternative 


82 


MYRA. 


that flashed upon him like a ray of inspiration. He remem- 
bered the ruling passion of our sex ; the fatal legacy left us by 
our flrst mother, who has bequeathed to her daughters that 
ceaseless yearning for knowledge — knowledge, not less intense 
than that which stirred her ambitious soul, when she sat ’neath 
the bowers of Eden, and won by soft caresses her uxorious lord 
to her pomaceous feast. 

‘‘He made peace with his cousin without delay, and giving her 
reply to his tender hillet-doux a suspiciously conspicuous position 
among the contents of his front pocket, hied him hence; to achieve 
a happ3^ destiny. 

“He had not been long in her presence, when her quick obser- 
vation recognized in his correspondent a feminine scribe. She in- 
quired the writer; he colored deeply. She asked to see it; he 
was covered with confusion. She asserted her claims with dig- 
nity, declaring that there should be no secrets between them, and 
that it was her manifest right to peruse it. His countenance as- 
sumed an aspect of alarm, as he swore that ‘he had rather die 
than have its contents meet her eye.’ 

“Enough! he had applied the spark to tinder, and the confla- 
gration was only a question of time. In playful reproachfulness, 
she seized the letter from its lurking place, and^ began to scan its 
pages; a scuffle ensued, in which Dorson made frantic efforts to 
recover the abstracted missive. A dozen lines were scarce got 
over, when tlie stricken maiden, with a piercing scream, sank faint- 
ing upon the sofa. 

“The entire household came rushing to the rescue; the swoon- 
ing nymph was deluged in ice water; camphor, hartshorn and eau 
de Cologne were applied to her olfactories in quick succession, and 
it was not until the contents of half a dozen gallipots had been 
well nigh exhausted that a restoration was wholly effected. 

“ When at length she opened her eyes to gaze upon her faith- 
less lover, the apostate, alas! was out of ken. Turning to advan- 
tage the general conrusion, he had taken French leave and ab- 
sconded. , Setting spurs to his nimble steed, he bounded away at 
Gilpin speed, never checking curb or rein till he found himself 
aboard the train bound for the liome of his affections. 

“ When Miss Lydia read, a short time afterwards, a lengthy ac- 
count of a brilliant marriage, in which Gilbert Dorson was the 


COUNTRY PLEASURES. 


83 


happy groom, she could contain lierself no longer.- She wrote an 
anonymous letter, in which she dwelt chiefly upon his plebeian 
blood, adding: ‘that slie was surprised that Lydia Philips should 
ever have permitted his attentions.’ 

“Although it was posted from a distant town, an aunt of the 
bride, who is said to have been remarkable for her wit and talent,, 
divined the author, and wrote a scathing reply, which blasted for- 
ever any lingei'ing hopes of matrimony nurtured by the fair Lydia. 
Is it not a sad story 

Henrietta’s gayety was contagious. It was impossible to remain 
long in her cheerful society without feeling buoyed by lier enliven- 
ing influence. Oscar w'as a frequent visitor, and it was not difii- 
cult to guess the cause of her joyousness. Happy Henrietta ! 


CHAPTER X. 

COUNTEY PLEASURES. 

5rnWAS one of those ambrosial morns, 

L Of summer showers and sun-beams born ; 
Which e’en hut now their hearts have blended, 
And toward our earth their way have wended, 
Till lighting o’er some limpid lake, 

They pause — their hiidal feast to take — 

In the lower air suspended. 

And as they sip the fragrant breeze 
Redolent from southern seas. 

They catch their shadows all aglow. 

Mirrored in the lake below. 

And ’raptured by their own love glances. 

Flash o’er her ip fantastic dances. 

Vesper, in anticipation 
Of the newly wedded pair. 

Wishing some slight gift to send them 
From the fields of upper air. 

Had lent a crystal from his hoard 
To garnish up the nuptial board. 

Which, ’tracted by the rose’s hue. 

Had kissed her lips with honey-dew. 


84 


MYKA. 


Sucli was the morn that hailed the ‘felicitous occasion,” and as 
the rising sun dispelled the mist, the mazarine heavens were not 
more cloudless than the youthful faces of the merry party that 
left Fenland Hall at an unusually early hour. The convention 
was to be held at the county village, seven miles distant; and as 
“everyone” would be there, seats would be in great demand; 
and as Oscar suggested, “could only be secured under penalty 
of semi-suffocation and an ocular bombardment for an hour be- 
fore services began.” 

He was treated at the Hall very much as one of the family; he 
came and went at pleasure, and his sunny face and perpetual good- 
humor seemed here to have found their native element. His say- 
ings were proverbial, and treasured as gems of wit by the trio of 
small individuals who always greeted him with a shout, followed 
hard upon his heels and tugged at his coat sleeve, soliciting his 
praises in behalf of the latest acquisition to the nursery para- 
phernalia. He mended Tommie’s top, painted Bobbie’s “express 
wagon,” instructed Susie in the Parisian costumes then in vogue, 
worn by ladies of state — such as she esteemed her dolly, pinched 
Maud’s ears, and mimicked what he teasingly termed her 
“ grownish ways.” He never appeared out of temper with any- 
thing or any body ; never “ borrowed trouble on interest,” and 
lived strictly upon the principle that “ sufficient for the day is the 
evil thereof.” No more popular spirit was to be found in all that 
district. Ready and obliging, he was ever willing to sacrifice self for 
the accommodation of others ; he never got into scrapes, since, like 
an expert fencer, he possessed the liappy knack of meeting every 
ill-natured thrust from the enemy’s foil with cool sarcasm or an 
annihilating jest. A social entertainment without “Maurice” was 
voted a failure; he was the life of every circle, and the “prince 
of good fellows” with all who knew him. 

Myra would scarcely have recognized in this gay Adonis tlie 
dignified young gentleman with whom she had danced upon that 
memorable new year’s eve. Their first few meetings over, he had 
thrown aside the mask of formality which he had worn at Violet 
Bank, and appeared in his true colors, the kind, warm-hearted and 
genial soul that he was. 

A number of friends had come from adjacent • counties, to 
be on hand when the assembly convened; and he, thoughtful 


COUNTRY PLEASURES. 


85 - 


and considerate as usual, deemed it more prudent to make no en- 
gagement for himself, but having manifested not the slightest 
partiality for any one of the fair bevy, to wait and see which of 
the charming visitors would be left without an escort; in con- 
sequence of which, when the hour for departure arrived, he 
found two bashful Misses left upon his hands, who having just 
entered upon their teens, were coy and susceptible accordingly. 
He begged the honor of convoying them thither with the same 
deferential gallantry as though soliciting the hand of a Fifth 
Avenue belle; and on comparing notes on their return, they mu- 
tually agreed that “Mr. Maurice was the handsomest, most enter- 
taining, and altogether the most fascinating young gentleman with 
whom they had ever met.” 

Mrs. Bryant did not accompany them, as the number of guests 
constantly coming and going necessitated her remaining at home; 
and Oscar, as she asserted, being the only one of the party whose 
rationality she could vouch for under all circumstances, she placed 
in his charge the edibles and other requisites for a sylvan ban- 
quet, — indispensable encumbrances, since they were not expected 
to return. 

With the baskets, Maud (a fair-haired girl next in age to Hen- 
rietta) and the young ladies aforesaid, together with an allow- 
ance of corn which his provident brain had stowed in the phaeton 
box for his “ team,” he brought up the rear with what he termed 
“his ship load of general merchandise, comprising passengers,, 
foreign importations, domestic wares and entertainment for man 
and beast.” 

He was playing the agreeable to the youthful coterie, when a 
solitary spire suddenly rose from a clump of trees a little in the 
distance. 

“Behold the city!” he cried with a solemn flourish, to Myra, 
who was just ahead. 

Looking in the direction indicated, she beheld the ruins of an 
apparently deserted village — if indeed, some half dozen tumbled- 
down buildings of indeterminate character, one or two store houses, 
a machine shop and eight or ten dwellings scattered indiscrimi- 
nately over a red clay bank deserved the appellation. 

She laughed more at the tone and expression than at the scene 


86 


MYRA. 


before lier. Her patriotic heart could not make sport of the 
poverty and downfall of her native state. 

“Poor old Virginia !” she exclaimed with touching sadness. 

“You view only the surbtirbs as yet, the city proper is further 
on,” said Oscar with iindiminished gravit3^ 

“I can discover notliing beyond except the church.” 

“You mistake my meaning,” he continued facetiously; “I 
mean that the citj^ is still in prospective. It seems that the 
enterprising founders, having selected the picturesque site, de- 
Hgned building thereon a national metropolis, and the scheme 
being a novel one, proposed executing it in a novel way. Con- 
trary to custom, therefore, they built the environs first, when the 
noble work was brought to an abrupt termination b}^ the bugle 
notes of battle, scattering woe and destruction over our prosperous 
land.” 

Their arrival was none too early; the building was already 
packed to its utmost capacity ; while horses, vehicles, men and boys 
formed an incongruous mass without. It was wdth difficulty that 
our party could gain the entrance; and once inside, having made 
a complete circuit of the aisles, was on the point of retiring in 
despair, when a couple of old gentlemen who occupied a seat near 
one of the narrow ^windows, made way for the feminine portion 
of the company. Their escorts, after seeing them comfort- 
ably seated, with many regrets at leaving their fair companions, 
sought the outskirts of the grove, where respiration w^as freer and 
conversation more rife. 

The air was hot and close, despite the number of fans, which 
gave rise to a gentle current, wafting on its breezy wings stif- 
ling odors of rose-water, bay-rum. Bloom of Youth, and an un- 
pleasant mingling of perfumes and cosmetics of sundry varieties. 
Ladies of all ages lined the benches, and the flutter of lace hand- 
kerchiefs, the rustle of crumpled silks, the audible whispers and 
smothered yawns kept up a perpetual buzz, resembling that of a 
swarm of bees dislodged from their mother hive ; it being next to 
impossible for any one in that part of the congregation to catch 
much of the sermon, which to our young friends, wdiose morning 
drive through the fresh country atmosphere made their present 
position seem doubly cramped and unenjoyable, was striking in 
nothing save prolixity. 


COUNTRY PLEASURES. 


87 


^ oung men, attracted by the heaux yeux of the fair prisoners, 
formed triple lines and luing in semi-circles about the doors and 
windows, instituting artful manoeuvres by which to attract their ' 
attention; some of whom, being up in chirology, transferred 
speech to their dainty fingers, and in this mute language, carried 
on an engaging conversation ; while others were equally intent 
upon a glove or handkerchief flirtation. 

Glad to be at length dismissed, the girls from Fenland Hall, 
meeting their escorts upon the steps, fouglit their way bravely 
thi’ougli the throng until they reached an open space large 
enough to spread tlieir viands, for wliich tlie unusual excitement 
and fatigue had given them a keen relish. As Henrietta pre- 
dicted, ‘every one was there,’ which meant, every one in that 
section who could get there; but to discover in that sea of human 
faces any single individual whom you particularly wished to see, 
was, as Oscar declared: “Ho less absurd than ‘looking for a 
needle in a hay stack.’” 

Feeling disinclined to a repetition of their morning's experience, 
they spent the afternoon without,, where the number who crowded 
the church could scarcely be missed from the promiscuous multi- 
tude. The carriages were appropriated by select parties, while 
the less fortunate were content to take botii sun and dust in open 
buggies or wagons. Old gentlemen stood al)out in squads, dis- 
cussing crops and politics ; while their sons strolled about the 
grounds with a passing compliment for every pretty group they 
stumVded upon. 

Enterprising confectioners had located refreshment stands upon 
the spot, wiiere cooling draughts might be had by the quantity; 
while the long lines constantly going to and from the denser por- 
tion of the wood, gave rise to tlie suspicion that its sequestered 
shades might screen tlie sale of a sti’onger beverage. The young 
people gave themselves up to the enjoyment of the hour; tickets 
to the coming ball were widely distributed, dances secured, and 
topics of a like nature freely discussed. 

This was Wednesday, and tlie services were to be continued 
through the week. 

The proceedings of tlie succeeding days were strictly in charac- 
ter with those' of the first; the meeting adjourned Saturday after- 


\ 


88 


MYRA. 


noon at an early hour, and the crowd dispersed; Mr. Jerome 
making one of the company who returned to Fenland Hall. 

Tired and exhausted, the girls made no pause on their arrival, 
but proceeded straight to their rooms, where they might exchange 
their heavy draperies for those of a lighter texture, and get well 
rested before making their appearance for the evening. 

Mrs. Bryant followed them laugliing. have an agreeable 
surprise for you, Myra,” she said at length. 

For me?” incredulously ; “ I like a pleasant surprise. Pray!- 
what can it be?” 

“There is a gentleman below stairs — from your neighborhood, 
I think — who called a few minutes ago, and enquired for ‘Miss 
Marston.’ I assured him that you would be back in a short 
while, so he has been making himself quite at home, while I en- 
tertained him to the best of my ability. I dare say he is one of 
your numerous admirers, who having grown impatient during 
your long absence, thought it best to come down and look after 
his own interest.” 

“It is Lionel! Some one is ill!”, cried Myra in alarm, giving 
utterance to the first thought that naturally fiashed upon her,, 
while her cheek paled in suspense. 

“Dispel your fears, my dear child,” with provoking coolness; 
“it is not Mr. Harrison, I assure 3^11, and Amur mother and father 
are both enjoying their usual health; at least, so says the stranger 
gentleman, who i^eports having seen them a da}^ or two since.” 

“I can’t imagine who it can possibly be,” said Mju'a refiectively,. 
regaining her composure. “I was not aware that I had made an 
impression so lasting. Please tell me.” 

“No, no,” replied her laughing hostess ; “I would not be guilty 
of so great an unkindness. To tell you his name, would be to 
ro.b the anticipated meeting of half its pleasure; but since he lias 
come so far, you will of course put a few extra touches to your 
toilet in honor of the unexpected visit.” 

“Do tell us!” cried a dozen eager voices. 

“Wait and see,” returned Mrs. Bryant, obstinately, as with a 
tantalizing smile she quitted the apartment. 

Curiosity in the dressing-rooms was at its height. 

“Wear you white silk, Myra,” suggested Henrietta, elate at the- 


COUNTRY PI>EA8URE8. 


89 


prospect of a joke ; “ I think I shall don my canary satin and run 
ugainst you.” 

“ Nonsense, Henrietta !” she returned with equal gayety. 

“She would look much sweeter in that figured muslin,” said 
Florence drowsily, as she settled herself for a nap; “simplicity 
and individuality are the real secrets of elegant and artistic dress.” 

They entered the parlors at nightfall, when mirabile dictu ! 
whom should they behold in the clare-obscure of the mellow lamp- 
light but our old friend Rodolphus, radiant and perspiring, and 
serenely expectant ! 

It was indeed he ; attired in his most sumptuous apparel. His 
identity was established beyond a doubt, for who could assume a 
similar pose ! who could look, and speak, and dress, exactly as he 
did ! and those remarkable hands and feet, and that notable watch 
chain could be the constituents of no other. 

Mrs. Bryant was correct in her conclusions : Mr. Sims had 
grown impatient. He had waited until now, thinking each week 
to ’welcome the return of his “ Bird of Paradise,” as he was wont 
to term her, when love, alias Mammon, awakened the dormant 
sentiment of his sordid nature ; but as his daily inquiries were 
met by the same unsatisfactory answer, he resolved to go at 
once, and ascertain by personal observation the cause of the pro- 
tracted visit. 

Truth to tell — he had felt greatly mortified and not a little 
wounded at the unfavorable reception of his valentine, but the 
first pangs of disappointment over, he found a panacea for his in- 
juries by adverting to his former motto ; and his inordinate vanity 
readily attributed her indifference to maidenly modesty, regarding 
her cruel slights as only an artifice by which to conceal her un- 
questionable admiration of his lovesome self. Yet strange to say, 
notwithstanding these comforting reflections, he had, nevertheless, 
never since that luckless day, been able to broach the subject ever 
uppermost in his thoughts. There was an inconvenient thickness 
about the windpipe, which rendered mere respiration laborious in 
the extreme, and his tongue refused to do his bidding when he 
found himself in her presence. 

“ No girl could fail to be touched by this last, undeniable proof 
of his aflfection,” he had reasoned ; and while the cost of the trip 
weighed in detail, the stake was considerable, and was he 
7 


was 


90 


MYRA. 


not certain of being amply reimbursed ? Hence the present es- 
capade. 

He had, for an hour past, been playing Innocence Abroad 
to the company of fashionable dandies who looked upon him as 
the latest wonder; and who, willing to be amused, crowded about 
him, and marked his gestures and drank his words with an avidity 
only equalled by the country lad who, upon occasion of his first 
visit to the city, requested his “ Ta’’ to show him the town, as 
he had seen nothing but houses. 

Mr. Sims had borne his honors with characteristic compla- 
cency, and during the circumlocutory process of ‘‘drawing out”' 
the stranger, “the stranger” had, by a series of well-tuned queries 
— the spontaneous out-growth of unsophisticated simplicity — suc- 
ceeded in posting himself upon the pecuniary status of the com- 
munity. 

An angry light darted from the hazel eyes which a moment be- 
fore had been dancing in mirth. 

“What right had he, that tawdry jackanapes, to persist in his 
odious attentions ? What authority had he for palming himself 
off upon society as her friend ? And had he no self-esteem that 
he could thrust himself thus, uninvited, where he must know that 
his presence was intolerable ?” 

Acknowledging his greeting with a distant bow, queenly in its 
haughty grace, she sought the farther end of the apartment, where 
she was soon surrounded and monopolized by a suite of enthusi- 
astic admirers. 

Oscar took in the situation at a glance, and Henrietta shaded 
her eyes and bit her lips to suppress her merriment. 

Mr. Sims blushed, mopped his forehead with a rose-colored 
bandana, and relapsing into silence, gave himself up to reflection. 

Tea over, the evening had passed pleasantly enough, and Myra 
was congratulating herself upon her unexpected good-fortune in 
eluding any advances of her pertinacious lover, when she suddenly 
discovered that the parlors were well nigh deserted. Mr. Jerome 
had for some time held her attention over a portfolio of en- 
gravings, hence she had not remarked the exit of the several 
couples as they dropped out two and two, preferring the study of 
astronomy upon the front lawn to the more circumscribed limits 
of the drawing-room, and leaving Oscar, Mr. Sims, Jerome and 
herself the only occupants. 


COUNTRY PLEASURES. 


91 


Mr. Sims had quietedly bided his time. Seizing upon the pre- 
sent opportunity for conversation, he crossed the room and seated 
himself by her side. 

‘‘You — ah! — ahem ! — You have enjoyed your visit I suppose,” 
he began, with great self-felicitation. 

“The lengtli of my stay would seem to warrant your supposi- 
tion,” without looking up. 

“ You — ah ! — ahem ! — Did you have a pleasant time at the con- 
ference ?” emboldened by a happy estimate of his personal at- 
tractions. 

“ Yery^’’ pronounced emphatically, between the bars of a favorite 
opera, luimmed under her breath. 

“Did — ah ! — Did any one take religion ?” asked Mr. Sims with 
a bland smile. 

No answer, except a puzzled look of surprise and amusement. 

“’Twas not a takable occasion,” observed Oscar with his usual 
sang-froid; “at least, that was not the object of the present meet- 
ing.” 

Mr. Sims spoke of religion as though it had been small-pox; 
which being the case, lie must have been inoculated in early 
childhood and had the disease in its mildest form, since in 
after life he had suffered no ill effects from frequent exposure to 
the most infected districts. 

“Won’t you sing for me!” petitioned Jerome, coming to her 
relief. 

A grateful smile answered this timely interposition. 

“ With pleasure,” she said, as she rose and accompanied him to 
the piano. 

Her clerical friend preferred the pathetic; and as her voice rose 
and fell with the plaintive strain, tlie gentle night winds, wooed by 
the magic minstrelsy, floated through the open windows, sporting 
with their spotless draperies; and kissing the breath of the fair 
enchantress, caught the wild refrain and bore away the soft vi- 
brations — as uncertain as the sigh of some half-assured pilgrim, as 
he stands in trembling ecstasy upon the borders of the spirit-land. 

Song followed song — as the star-gazers, returning from their 
promenade, pressed about her, begging, each, for his favorite — to 
the unspeakable dissappointment and chagrin of the infatuated 
Sims, he being thus debarred any further enjoyment of her society. 


92 


MYRA. 


CHAPTER XL 


TEUE HEEOISM. 


YRA and Oscar had grown to be stanch friends during her 



JlVJL visit. Having formed a high estimate of his character 
upon their first meeting, she was more and more favorably im- 
pressed, as each day of their acquaintance revealed some fresh in- 
stance of his magnanimity and sterling worth, while he, on the 
other hand, desired no other evidence of her superexcellence than 
the fact that she possessed the warmest love and confidence of his 
adored Henrietta. True, Oscar liked everybody, but there was 
that in his deportment toward herself that said, she was second 
to but one in his esteem. She had laid the foundation of a 
firm and lasting friendship, based upon that deep respect which 
her remarkable profundity and high-bred mien never failed to 
awaken in the minds of her associates. 

But notwithstanding the depth of their mutual regard, there 
was another youthful memory upon the tablets of which, he had, 
unintentionally, stamped a more fatal impress. Young, handsome 
and genial, he was well calculated to inspire with admiration a 
less susceptible heart than that of the voluntary victim, who hav- 
ing cast peace and happiness upon the die, had sworn within her- 
self to gain his love by foul or fair. If Florence had ever sus- 
pected his betrothal, no one was the wiser for it : Henrietta had 
never told her, perhaps, because she had never asked her confi- 
dence. Be that as it may, slie had very prudently kept to herself 
any conjectures she may have entertained upon the subject, and 
her last mental resolve had been, “I will win him, coute quHl 
couteP . 

Myra reached home in high spirits, all unmindful of the trials 
in store for her. 

Lionel made one of the little home circle upon the ensuing 
evening, and for the first time in her life she felt embarrassed in 
his presence. What her sensations were, she could neither under- 
stand nor describe; but certain it was, they were different from 
any she had ever before experienced. 


TRUE HEROISM. 


93 


“Was his manner changed, or was it only an exaggeration of 
her too lively imagination ? 

“Was he not more silent and abstracted than was his wont? 
And when he spoke, was it not in tones strangely low and uncer- 
tain, when compared with the free-and-easy style in which he 
usually addressed her ? 

“ When he questioned her about the particulars of her visit, 
was it not natural that he should manifest a special interest in the 
scenes in whicli she had been an active participant ? and would it 
not have been an irremissible breach of etiquette, setting aside 
their intimate friendship, if, after two months’ separation, he had 
not told her how he had missed the enlivening society of his little 
friend, and how lonely he had been during her fTbsence ? 

“What then was the meaning of this singular uneasiness? 
What chimera had taken possession of her, that she was haunted 
by this vague dread of something unpleasant, she knew not what ? 

“Had he said or done aught to offend? Most certainly no ; 
on the contrary, lie appeared even more kind and considerate than 
usual ; studied her pleasure and anticipated lier wishes. 

“Was there anytliing repellent in her manner toward him? 
Was it her own quiet dignity that held him at a distance? If 
not these, what could have erected this barrier of formality be- 
tween them ? 

“ Pshaw ! what a silly fancy ! how unfounded and unworthy 
of her ! Lionel was the same ; her childhood’s friend, unchanged 
and true. The fault was in herself and no other : she was feel- 
ing dull and out of spirits, and imagined others equally unap- 
proachable. Such fantasies were weak and irrational: she would 
dissolve the spell.” 

She essayed to rid herself of such depressing imaginings, and 
thought to beguile^ him of his^abstraction by playful raillery. He 
checked her forced gayety by reminding her that she was no 
longer a child : she felt wounded and annoyed, and doubly un- 
comfortable throughout the remainder of the evening. 

He requested her to ride with him on the morrow ; she granted 
a reluctant consent : a pained expression overspread his noble 
features ; her quick eye caught the injured air, and she sought to 
offer an amende for her unkindness by a more gracious concession 
at parting. The promise, however, was hardly given when she 


94 


MTKA. 


would have revoked it, could she conscientiously have framed a 
plausible excuse for doing so. 

The youthful emotions, how incomprehensible ! and the sensi- 
tive mind, what a tissue of inconsistencies ! How she invoked 
the god of storms to send wind or rain ! how she wished tor some 
happy intervention — even a slight illness — if, by that [means, 
she might escape the dreaded ordeal. And when at length 
she fell asleep upon a dewy pillow, it was only to find the 
phantasms of dream-land even more distressing than those of 
her waking hours. She awoke from an uneasy slumber when wee 
bright visitants from the blushing Orient peeped through her case- 
ment and summoned her from her couch. 

He w'as punctual to the minute, and six o’clock saw them seated 
for their drive. 

They returned at dusk ; and though the halls had not been 
lighted, in the swollen eyes and crimson cheeks lingered undeni- 
able traces of recent tears, distinctly visible in the deepening twi- 
light. 

Lionel wore a countenance scarcely less woe-begone, and to the 
ineffable astonishment of the entire household, met Mr. Marston’s 
pressing invitation to tea with a positive refusal, declaring that 
his business was such as to demand his immediate presence in 
B , and turning the heads of his thoroughbreds in the direc- 

tion of home, sped down the road at a rapid pace. 

Myra repaired to her room, and left untasted the toast and 
coffee which Aunt Jemima brought up to her. The aged Abigail 
was nonplused ; disinterested love for the “ poor chile ” rendered 
an expostulation imperative. Myra listened awhile in silence, 
but cut her remonstrances abruptly short by evincing a decided 
disinclination to talk. The venerable domestic withdrew, and 
to shirk enquiry and explanations, she extinguished her light 
and feigned sleep when her mother looked in a few minutes later. 

Unhappy girl ! what had she done that this pitiless shaft must 
be hurled so unexpectedly into her bright young life! Childish 
disappointments and school troubles sunk into insignificance, and 
were engulfed in her present sorrow. 

But oh ! how simple she must have been, not to have guessed 
long months before the light in which he regarded her! and how 
blind not to have foreseen the inevitable consequence of their un- 
reserved intimacy ! 


TRUE HEROISM. 


95 


She knew that her person was admired and her society courted. 
She had seen men bow in adulation before her, while she remained 
<50ol and unimpressible, accepting their homage as her lawful 
tribute, her woman’s just immunity ! But this! great heavens ! 

Oh ! the unspeakable anguish it costs a tender, sympathetic heart 
fo be constrained to listen to the broken story of a strong man’s 
love 1 To hear the painful recital from one who has loved her 
from infancy, laid heart and soul upon the altar of this one idol, 
lived, hoped and labored for no other meed, until the subtile ten- 
drils of mind and spirit have twined themselves indissolubly about 
the worshipped image, loved as only such a nature can ! And 
while he would haste to claim the guerdon of his loyalty, yet bids 
his thirsting heart be still, and nobly waits, lest conscience should 
dictate a happier choice for the woman he would die to win. And 
when he has silently endured the pangs of postponement, watched 
the suitors come and go, feeding in solitude upon beatific visions 
of an ideal future, scenes in which his hungry imagination ever 
likes to revel, until after biding a fitting season, and finding the 
idolized object still unshackled, his heart give an exultant bound, 
and daring to hope for a consummation of his wildest dreams, 
throws himself at her feet and pleads as though life instead of 
happiness depended upon the issue ; after he has exhausted his 
catalogue of vows and endearments, losing sense and reason in his 
passionate appeal ; oh the effort to force her lips to utter the cruel, 
crushing words! to say in accents cold and staid: ‘‘My heart 
gives no responsive tiirob ; I know not the sentiments of which 
you speak. I have nothing to offer in return but friendship and 
esteem 

How he writhes under the demolition of his pictured Eden, 
ruthlessly shattered by the one being who could render existence 
a noon-tide of bliss, and without whom life were a stagnant pool, 
upon whose vapid surface he would float like a withered autumn 
leaf, aimless in love, hope and ambition ! How, in the first ago- 
nizing moments of his bitter disappointment, he scorns the prof- 
fered boon, hugs his grief with a selfish tenacity, and feels a wicked 
delight in trampling upon the few remaining flowerets left bloom- 
ing by his pathway ! How in the ravings of despair he exagge- 
rates his sorrow, uttering involuntary execrations upon the innocent 
author of his ruin, until time, like an angel of healing, administers 


96 


MYBA. 


balm to the bruised heart, toning down his too ardent love, until 
it subsides into a quiet and tender affection ! 

Myra entered the breakfast-room pale and preoccupied, as 
though she had spent a sleepless night. No one questioned her 
of the previous evening : her father looked grave, her mother an- 
noyed, and their one fair child was truly wretched. 

Days came and went; long, dreary days in which she watched 
and waited, but waited in vain. A week dragged slowly by, still 
Lionel did not appear. Oh how she missed his pleasant com- 
panionship! How she reproached and hated herself! 

She was strolling upon the terrace late one afternoon, restless 
and dissatisfied, when her father joined her and requested her to 
accompany him in his walk. She followed him in silence; he led 
the way to her favorite willow, and drawing her upon his lap, 
stroked her curls caressingly. 

“1 have a Christmas story for my little girl,” he said with play- 
ful fondness. 

“ It is not Christmas, father.”^ 

“ Ay, true ; but a Christmas story nevertheless.” 

She bent her head, and casting her dark eyes upon the mossy 
velvet at their feet, listened with respectful attention to 

Mr. Marston’s Story. 

‘Ht has been more than twenty years ago,” he began with evi- 
dent emotion, “and yet,” he added musingly, “as memory leap& 
the interval, how vividly those old days come back to me! those 
cherished scenes of early manhood, blooming in retrospect like 
never-fading passion-flowers along the brinks of time!” 

Rallying from his brief soliloquy, he continued: “There were 
once two lads of noble birth, totally unlike in character and dis- 
position — one country-born, the other city-reared ; the former wild 
and impetuous, the latter thoughtful and reserved. They met at 
, our proud old University, and these contrary spirits, seeming at 
once drawn toward each other, as if by magnetism, linked their 
youthful hearts in a deathless friendship — a friendship so pure and 
true that no trials nor vicissitudes of after-life could rend the 
sacred tie. Here they finished their collegiate career, and the 
country lad, an only scion of his ancient race, was made thrice 
happy a few months later, when, driven from the city by declin- 


TRUE HEROISM. 


9T 


ing health, the father of his much loved friend took up his resi- 
dence near the orphan’s cheerless home. 

“Then followed wrecks of delightful companionship, for they 
were seldom separated. Brothers could not have been more sin- 
cerely attached, and days spent in idle dreams and youthful vaga- 
ries flitted by, until spring merged into summer, enticing them to 
livelier haunts. They were both to celebrate their majority within 
the month, and pining for a plunge in the sea of gayeties before 
entering upon the duties and responsibilities of manhood, they 
chose as their destination the gay White Sulphur, and August 
saw them among the many votaries who thronged the fashionable 
resort. 

“Here they met a lovely, gentle girl, an early playmate of the 
city lad, and of whom his friend had often heard him speak in 
terms of affectionate regard. He hastened to make them known 
to each other, and in answer to what was intended as a formal in- 
troduction, she extended a snowy hand, and with artless cordiality, 
declared herself ready to welcome any one who was honored with 
the confidence of her old play-fellow. Fascinating and beautiful) 
it could not be wondered that anxious suitors crowded thick and 
fast about her — ‘the belle of the season’ in common parlance, 
and certainly I never knew another of whom it might be more 
justly said. Ignoring, however, the many suppliants for her pre- 
ference, she turned, surfeited and disgusted, from the artificial 
surface life upon which she was drifting, making no effort to 
disguise her partiality for the society of the favored pair, in 
the current of whose friendship she discovered a more genuine 
ripple. 

“This fair young creature had laid siege to the orphan’s 
heart, which bounded alternately with wild, indefinite hopes, only 
to be lost in an ocean of doubts, when he remembered that his 
friend, perchance, might hold a prior claim; which being true, 
as dear as she had grown to him, he would have torn the bleed- 
ing member from his bosom and trampled it in the dust, sooner 
than have proved a traitor to the noble comrade who loved him 
as a brother. He longed to question him, but pride seared the 
words upon his lips; he would not force a confidence that was 
not voluntarily bestowed. Haunted by this suspicion, he watched 
them narrowly, jealously; but his searching eyes could discover 


MYRA. 


• 9 « 

nothing beneath the impervious mask save friendship, and that 
alone. 

“ They returned home after six weeks of unremitting gayety, 
and the dutiful son, finding his father’s health sufiiciently restored, 
proceeded at once to a Northern city, where he might prosecute 
the study of his chosen profession, leaving his less fortunate friend 
in a most unenviable frame of mind. 

“ Left thus to himself, this love-stricken youth gave liimself up 
to business, resolving to forget; but the resolution was no sooner 
formed than broken. He could not forget ; waking or sleeping, 
that one fair face was ever before him, and her lightest words were 
jphonograjphed upon his memory. 

‘‘It was late in December, when, driven by an irresistible 
impulse, he sought her home; but the grand monuments and 
stately edifices of the far-famed city, were all unseen by the 
eyes that could espy one only mansion, where dwelt the queen 
before whose throne he proudly knelt and begged to claim al- 
legiance. The winter’s blast wailed through the streets and the 
snow fell in blinding sheets, obstructing vehicles and causing fre- 
quent collisions with the hurrying pedestrians, who jostled each 
other upon the side-walk; but the warring elements were un- 
heeded and forgotten in that peaceful haven, the lover’s Para- 
dise! The genial warmth, the soft light, the art gems that met 
his gaze on every hand, the flowering exotics, the little canary, 
which twittered cheerily from its costly prison, and the general 
air of taste and luxury, were dangerous surroundings in that ten- 
der hour. But oh ! the thrill of rapture that shook his being as 
he listened, eager and breathless, to the half-uttered confession, 
from the lips of the lovely creature before him, and the timid 
promise to cast her lot with his and share his fate in weal or 
woe ! 

“He reached home, he knew not how. He seemed bounding 
through the air upon an enchanted horse, and, despite the wind 
and sleet, the sun appeared to shine with ten-fold brightness, and 
the frosty air was as balmy as the breath of May. His bachelor 
establishment was metamorphosed into a royal palace, and the 
furniture and domestics into gallant courtiers, who would offer 
-continual homage to his queen. 

“’Twas Christmas eve, when settling himself to peace and 


TRUE HEROISM. 


99 


quiet, he succeeded in collecting enough of his wandering ideas 
to write his friend a long and somewhat incoherent epistle, in 
which he recounted his tale of love, endeav^oring, in a measure, to 
portray the happiness he had won ; at the same time begging for- 
giyeness for his former reticence, and adding, ‘that it wanted 
only his approval of his choice to render his felicity complete.’ 
It was duly sealed and posted, and he grew impatient when he re- 
fleeted that a week must elapse before he could expect a re- 

piy- 

“Calling at the office the following evening, two letters were 
handed him, and recognizing in the inscription on the daintier en- 
velope the hand of his fiancee, he slipped the other in his 
pocket, without according it so much as a cursory glance. Every 
word in the brief missive was read, re-read and digested ; and he 
was on the point of retiring, when he suddenly remembered 
the other, which still remained unopened. Breaking the seal, he 
scanned it hastily ; chiding himself, meanwhile, for his selfishness 
in forgetting thus his old fj-iend, for the writer was no other. 

“‘Love is like Bermuda grass,’ exclaimed the young planter, 
oracularly ; ‘ a seed once sown can never be exterminated ; and 
how soon it chokes out the less vigorous growth by which it is 
surrounded !’ 

“ He read one — two — three pages, without being able to arrive 
at any definite conclusion upon any subject. He wrote upon 
general topics, — such as his studies, business and social pursuits, 
future prospects, etc. ; but take it all in all, it sounded strangely 
■cramped and obscure, certain passages seeming to imply a deeper 
meaning than tlie mere common places upon which he dwelt. 
He was absorbed in the perusal of the last page ere he could 
penetrate its ambiguity, which, like a woman’s postscript, com- 
prised theVea^ signification of the preceding paragraphs. 

“‘I expect to be at home some time during the coming month,’ 
it ran; ‘and just here, my dear friend, I have to beg your for- 
giveness for concealing so long from you the only secret which I 
have never permitted you to share. You remember the fair girl 
we met last summer, in the sunlight of whose eyes I basked for 
the happy six weeks we spent together! What suspicions may 
have been roused wdthin you then, I know not; suffice it to say, 
I have loved her since earliest childhood, and not more devotedly 


100 


MYRA. 


now, than when, at seven years of age, with a dozen others of like 
precocit}^ I rode at a child’s tournament, upon a stick horse, and 
crowned her ‘queen of love and beauty.’ I remember, as though 
it were yesterday, the exact color and pattern of the dress she 
wore, and liow like a real knight I felt, as I fastened the simple 
wreath of daisies and tiny rose buds among her golden curls! 

‘“No syllable has ever yet escaped my lips to betray the 
dormant passion which has slumbered so long within me; but I 
feel instinctively that she cares for me, and have had to battle- 
bravely with my own heart to preserve my secret, when I 
have sometimes imagined a difference in her manner toward 
myself and the conceited popinjays who registered their names 
in her list of admirers. Fou will doubtlbss think me strangely 
dilatory and indifferent, and had I been impulsive, like your- 
self, should have been more precipitate; but I was too proud 
to mention my hopes until I was sure of earning a name which 
she would never be ashamed to share. Success seems now within 
my grasp, for I have every reason to expect, with time and study, 
to rise to eminence in my profession ; and sliould I ever attain 
that degree of distinction for which I strive, I shall feel that I 
owe it all to her; for it was the inspiration of my boyhood’s dream 
that has spurred ambition and quickened m3" energies. I feel 
that it needs only a promise from herself to make me adequate to 
every exigency; shall visit her on m3" way home and learn my 
fate, whate’er it be. I tremble when I reflect that after all, I 
ma3’ have been cheating myself with a hollow fanc3q and lost 
by my long delay the prize I ever hoped to win; but I ban- 
ish from my mind all such unwelcome thoughts, and will not 
anticipate a disappointment, the very possibility of which were 
maddening.’ 

“ He read no more. Crushing the sheet in his icy clasp, he 
leaned against the mantel for support, while a nameless feeling of 
wretchedness and self-abhorrence pierced his inmost soul. 

“ ‘ Oh, why must this drop of un tempered bitterness imbue his 
cup of bliss 1’ 

“How he reproached himself for his silence! How like a thief 
he felt ! How like a thief and a traitor, as he recalled the indite- 
ment of his own happ3" letter, every word of which would be as a 
poisoned barb in the heart of his injured friend! How days 


TRUE HEROISM. 


101 


ivere as months while awaiting its reply ! and how he longed for 
the assurance that he was not utterly despised, and that his sup- 
planted rival had some hope to sustain him under the blow his 
hand had dealt! 

“ It came at last — brief, yet generous and forgiving. ‘ Pardon 
me for not writing sooner to offer my congratulations,’ it said; 
‘but I could not act a lie and pen a sentiment which my con- 
science did not sanction. The intelligence contained in your last 
came upon me like a thunderbolt, so crushing was its abruptness. 
For a moment it stunned, and in the next there arose within me 
a horrible envy, for which I hated myself the instant reason had 
resumed its sway. The exact nature of my feelings toward you, 
when at last I comprehended the import of the mute characters 
which sung a requiem to my long-cherished hopes, I will not 
attempt to describe. But enough! I have waged a fearful war- 
fare wdth my own heart, and have vanquished the enemy, have 
conquered self ! 

“‘I can now see how ungenerous and unjust it vrere to harbor 
such sentiments ; can realize that it were better so. You are more 
calculated to win a woman’s love and can render her life brighter 
and happier than I. Your letter teaches me the fallacy of my 
dream, and since my doom was inevitable, better to have heard it 
from your lips than her’s! Thank heaven! she has never sus- 
pected the depth of my attachment and was spared the trial of 
giving me pain! I cannot reproach you for withholding your 
confidence, since I have been equally blamable. 

“‘The draught was bitter, but I have drunk it to the lees; and 
now, if the sincere and full assurance of my heart’s best wishes 
for your welfare can add aught to your happiness, accept a 
brother’s blessing. I shall never fail to remember in my prayers 
the two beings whom I shall ever after regard with fraternal 
aflfection.’ 

“The words were simple enough, but the accepted lover well 
knew the pang their writing cost him. The projected visit was 
postponed, with a promise to attend the nuptials, which were to 
be celebrated with the coming spring. A week before the day 
appointed however, a letter, accompanying his bridal gift, was 
received, in which he apologized for his absence, offering as a plea, 


102 


MYRA. 


‘ That he had been suddenly seized with the mania for Eastern 
travel, and would embark for Europe in a few days.’ 

“Three years rolled by, in which his whereabouts were un- 
known outside of his immediate family, his friends losing sight of 
him, except what they could glean from foreign journals, where 
his name was frequently seen in the list of American tourists. 

“ Suddenly he was summoned to the bedside of his dying father, 
and from that hour, forsook the road to fame and fortune, devot- 
ing his life to tlie comfort and pleasure of his widowed mother. 
He was greatly changed, older and sadder, as though some secret 
sorrow had weighed heavily upon him ; but he had made no idle 
boast when he declared that ‘he had conquered self.’ 

“ Again he sought the enlivening society of his old friend, and 
the happy father, placing in his arms a laughing babe, a fairer 
type of its young mother, exclaimed with impetuous magnanimity, 

‘ I stole your first love, but you shall have my child ! I will teach 
her to love and revere you, and should she live to be a woman, 
will consign her to your keeping. Let this be my voucher for 
the esteem in which I hold you!’ 

“The strong man was moved to tears, and kissed the chubby 
infant to cover his emotion. 

“He grew strangely fond of the cheery wee one, petted and 
caressed her, and found a source of unending delight in watch- 
ing her childish gambols ; but ere two years had passed, the 
young wife being smitten by the hand of disease, the anxious 
husband hastened to try the effects of other climes, so that, on 
their return, he recognized in the little girl with whom he had 
parted ten years before, a child no longer, but a tricksy Miss of 
thirteen summers. His manner, though adapted to the new phase 
in which he found her, was undiminished in tenderness; and wliile 
he strove to fill the place of a brother, he well knew that his 
affection was not that bestowed upon a sister. 

“He watched, with increasing pride and admiration the 
vivacious school girl as she ripened into womanhood; and the 
heart untimely blighted, warmed into life by her youthful com- 
panionship, began to put forth fresh germs, which, fiourishing in 
the sunshine of her presence, burst into a delicate and sensitive 
blossom, and he loved with an abandonment of every other 
thought and sentiment — more consuming in its intensity than the 


TRUE HEROISM. 


103 


passion which had inspired the noblest aspirations of youth and 
manhood. Again was imagination launched upon an impenetrable 
future, lured by that treacherous beacon, the star of hope ! Again 
he dreamed of love and blessedness that might yet be his ! 

“Noble and generous, he would scorn to take advantage of her 
youth and inexperience by beguiling her into a promise which 
she might possibly repent with maturer years ; hence he waits ; 
lets her view the world in its holiday vestments; lets her feast 
upon adulation until pampered with its sweetness ; and when 
at last he stakes his all upon the significance of a word, she sends 
him from her, with nothing to hope for, nothing to strive for,, 
consigning him to a life of despondency, down whose gloomy 
walks he must wander aimless and alone! 

“What tliink you of the sentence? Think you not his a hard 
fate?’^ 

Myra had hid her face upon his shoulder, and was sobbing 
audibly ; for while their versions differed, she could not fail to 
recognize the story as the same which Lionel had recited on the 
evening of their drive. She had listened to it then for the first 
time, and in her struggle with the dictates of conscience and a 
hyperbolical sense of her own unhappy part in the tragic life 
drama, her sensitive heart had been swelled well nigh to bursting. 

“Oh, father!” she cried, reproachfully, giving utterance to 
her long pent emotions. “You are cruel and unjust; indeed you 
are! I do love Lionel, very, very dearly; but I cannot regard 
him in the light he would have me. I feel toward him very much 
as I do toward yourself, and recognize in him the embodiment of 
the kind and devoted brother so often pictured in childish fancy. 
I cannot reward his fidelity with such a love as he deserves at the 
hands of the woman he would call his wife; and yet,” she added, 
brokenly, “ if you really wish it, I will fulfil your promise ; but 
oh, father! you little know what you ask!” 

“Never!” exclaimed the doting parent, in passionate tender- 
ness, clasping her closer to his bosom. “Never while I live! 
My friend is dear, but my child is dearer! Never shall she be 
offered as a sacrifice by the father who adores her !” 

“Dry your tears, little one,” he said, composedly, after a brief 
silence, “the dew is falling, and ‘mother’ will be at a loss to ac- 
count for our absence. Do not allow what you have heard this 


104 


MYRA. 


evening to prey upon your peace; you have no cause to reproach 
yourself. We cannot control the workings of destiny; and,” he 
continued, comfortingly, “it may be for the best after all; wlio 
can assert the contrary?” 

“ Where is he, father ?” enquired the weeping girl, when she 
could command her voice sufficiently for the query. 

“Who, Pet?” 

“Lionel.” 

“Oh! he has not gone far,” he replied, with a smile, provoked 
by the anxiety depicted in her youthful countenance. “He had 
a business call down the country a few days since, — something 
in reference to settling up an old estate, about which there ap- 
pears to have been some quibble, I don’t know what. He will 
return ere long, when his mind, I trust, will have acquired a more 
cheerful tone than that betrayed on the eve of departure, the day 
upon which he apprised me of his rejection.” 

“ I think, Mary, that a change of scene would be an advantage 
to our child,” he remarked to his wife, a week later, when Myra 
seemed still suffering under an unusual depression of spirits. “I 
am compelled to take a trip South this fall ; suppose you and 
she accompany me.” 

“I was just on the point of offering a similar suggestion,” re- 
plied his consort, with evident pleasure, gratified that he should 
have anticipated her proposition. 

It was now the middle of September, and they were to start 
early in October. Myra received in the interim a long letter 
from Henrietta, one paragraph of which elicited an exclamation 
of surprise. 

“I^have great news to tell you!” wrote the merry scribe. 
“Oscar left yesterday for Lexington. A lucrative position, in 
the house with which Mr. Stillbury is connected, was tendered 
him, and he could not be so blind to his own interest as to refuse 
its acceptance. Was it not kind of Florence to think of him ? 
for of course it was through her influence that the situation was 
obtained. I hated dreadfully to think of his going so far, but he 
promised to write very often, and I have become reconciled to the 
parting, since it will tend to his advancement. I trust that the 
term of separation may not be long, for I dare say he will make 


TRUE HEROISM. 


105 


his fortune in a few years, and then Here the sentence 

came to an abrupt terminus, ending in a long dash. 

It was not until the day before that fixed upon for their de- 
parture that Lionel made his appearance again among them. He 
looked quite himself, pleasant and entertaining as usual; and 
Myra felt greatly relieved in noting the fortitude wdth which he 
bore his disappointment. He expressed many regrets at losing 
their pleasant society, but beyond these, no word or act betokened 
perturbation or discontent. ' 

“ He must have a song before bidding them good-night,” he 
said, leading the way to the drawing-room, since it would be 
several montlis ere he could hope to enjoy a similar treat.” 

She could not deny the simple request, but the purpose for 
which they came was fojgotten by each the moment they were 
alone. 

‘‘Myra,” he said, earnesthq taking her hand kindly in his own, 
^‘I wish to beg your forgiveness for the pain I so unwittingly 
occasioned you. It was selfish and unkind to ask the boon for 
which I pleaded. I shall never wound you by its repetition, nor 
would I accept the sacrifice were it laid at my feet a voluntary 
offering. Forget my hasty, passionate words, and believe me 
henceforth the loving brother you have ever regarded me. I 
shall strive to prove myself worthy of the name, with only one 
stipulation — that I am granted a brother’s privilege. I have not 
asked it before, when I cherished hopes of a dearer tie. Kiss me, 
sister ! let this be our pledge.” 

A thick mist obscured her sight, but as Ids lips pressed hers, 
(for the first time in many years), a heavy weight seemed lifted 
from her heart, and in its place there came a feeling she could not 
define — admiration for this heroic spirit, who, ignoring self, had 
learned to live and labor for others. 

The night was far spent, and it ’twas only the stars that gazed 
silently upon him as he wrestled with his secret sorrow. 

“ Oh God ?” he cried, in bitter anguish, “ why hast Thou tried 
me thus ! Help me to bear ! oh help me to bear ! Give me 
strength to endure to the uttermost !” And as the prayer died 
upon his lips, his countenance was lit with a nobler beauty — the 

BEAUTY OF SELF-CONQUEST. 


8 


106 


MYBA. 


CHAPTER XII. 

FKOM THE CLASP OF AZKAEL. 

11 WAS moonlight on the water, and a solemn stillness reigned 

JL through the diiskj corridors of a slumbering world. Xo 
unwelcome discord intruded upon Nature’s reverie, and not a sound 
was heard along the stream except its own sullen murmur, and a 
low gurgle, as now and then a huge fish or alligator crossed the 
steamer’s track, leaving in its wake a silvery ripple, widening until 
lost in the dancing shadows. 

The broad bosom of the Mississippi lay before them, grand,, 
gloomy and beautiful ! along whose banks lofty cypress trees 
ranged their stately forms, like weird sentinels in the alternate 
light and shade of the sliifting moonbeams ; while from their over- 
hanging branches trailed a mossy drapery, wdiose inverted trans- 
cript sported, like phantoms, o’er the polished mirror. 

There was a wild, fantastic beauty in the scene, relieved of its 
monotony as an occasional cottage and waving cotton-fields glim- 
mered faintly in the distance. An unexpected apparition com- 
pletes the picture, as a lonely crane or heron unfurls its pinions and 
wings its silent flight, like some white-robed spectre of upper air.. 

But hark ! a tender melody floats out upon the night, — the soft 
notes of a guitar and a voice so sweetly blended, that it might 
have been a siren’s song, wdien, as of old, she woke the melting 
echoes of her mystic shell. Passengers, strolling lazily about the 
deck, attracted by the music, paused one by one, until a circle 
was formed about the pretty minstrel. 

“ Hist !” cried Myra, with a start, “ I thought I heard a human 
voice, like some one in distress.” 

“ You heard the alligators,” remarked the captain jocosely.. 
“ Really, Miss Marston, we cannot suffer it,” as she would have 
laid the instrument aside. “ We too heard a human voice, al- 
though some of the young gentlemen present might question the 
truth of my assertion, and if distress could inspire such notes,, 
I, at least, should insist upon instituting a system of torture for 
more than one fair vocalist.” 


FROM THE CLASP OF AZRAEL. 


107 


The captain had already turned the corner of middle age, and 
though the cares of husband and father had long been his, he had 
not forgotten the gallantry of earlier days and the art of making 
himself agreeable, which had rendered his steamer one of the most 
popular on the line, and won for him a large share of public pat- 
ronage. 

She took up the severed strain somewhat reluctantlj , but air 
and accompaniment ceased simultaneously at the second line. 

“See!” she cried excitedly, pointing to an object a little in the 
distance. 

All eyes followed hers, where the figure of a man was distinctly 
visible against the turbid waters, as he clung with tenacious grasp 
to an over-turned “dug-out,” struggling desperately with the waves 
in his frantic efforts at resistance. 

What a study to watch their varied countenances as they gaze 
upon the heart-rending spectacle! Horror is plainly depicted in 
the faces of those whose eyes are strangers to death and sufiering; 
while others, more familiar with scenes of pain and wretchedness, 
look quietly on, unmoved by the frozen pity that congeals their 
nobler impulses. Not that these were by nature callous, but owe 
their induration rather to the schooling of the rude outer world, 
where incidents of a similar character are too frequent to call 
forth more than the passing ejaculation: “poor fellow!” 

They stood, perhaps a minute, in which no word or gesture be- 
trayed the workings of heart or mind on the part of the many 
spectators. 

Myra was the first to break the silence. “ Will no effort be 
made to rescue him?” she cried, looking wildly about her, her 
cheeks glowing and blanching alternately, her eyes on fire, dreamy 
no longer but eager and penetrating, as though she would read 
their inmost souls. “Must he perish here before our very eyes, 
without even an attempt to avert his awful doom? Oh if we 
could only save him ! it may not be too late !” 

Recalled thus to themselves, their sympathies aroused and en- 
ergies quickened, incited to the undertaking by the spirit and ve- 
hemence of the over-excited girl, volunteers arose on every hand, 
and crew and passengers hurried about the deck in confusion. 

A life-boat was immediately lowered, and one heroic heart stood 
still as they neared the sinking form. His strengtli was evidently 


108 


MYKA. 


failing fast, as he was borne rapidly onward with the restless tide ; 
another moment and all would be over. Oh if they could only 
save him ! But the agony of suspense — who has not felt it ! He 
essayed to utter a feeble cry which ended in a stifled moan. He 
made one last, one dying struggle, beat the air and fought madly 
with the destroyer, beneath whose current to sink but once is cer- 
tain death, since the hapless wight who falls a victim to its piti- 
less embrace closes his eyes to be re-opened only in the world 
beyond. With superhuman energy, the stiffenirjg lips parted; the 
call for help died away in a shriek of despair, when — O horrors ! 
the little canoe, to which he had clung so long, floated far beyond 
his reach, and the livid countenance vanislied from sight, just as 
he was snatched by his rescuers from a watery grave. 

Deafening cheers now rent the air, and as shout after shout 
echoed along tlie stream, only one voice joined not in the general 
enthusiasm; only one figure remained mute and motionless; only 
one heart too full for utterance ! 

Mr. Marston, his wife and a couple of elderly gentlemen, with 
whom he had been conversing below, alarmed by the unusual up- 
roar, rushed upon the deck as the lifeless burden was being lifted 
on board the larger craft. 

“Young Fairfield, or my name is not George Baley !” exclaimed 
the good captain in unfeigned surprise, his equanimity having been 
sadly unbalanced by the excitement of the moment. 

Myra had only a glimpse of the drowned man’s face, as his 
bearers passed on their way to the cabin. But sucli a face ! Would 
she had never seen it! Features such as no human artist could 
paint nor sculptor chisel; an expression such as to defy portrayal! 
The cheeks wore a tinge of Southern suns, despite their ashy 
whiteness; the eyes closed lightly, as in slumber; the lips half 
parted, as though to speak. Ebon ringlets clustered thick about 
the marble brow, while upon the whole rested an indescribable 
serenity, manly in its helplessness, beautiful even in death ! 

But the broad cliest heaved not, and the arms fell limp and 
passive at his side. 

“'He is dead,” murmured a dozen smothered voices. “Poor 
fellow, and so young too !” 

Amusement for the night being at an end, the ladies returned 
to the saloon, while restoratives were being applied with untiring 


FROM THE CLASP OF AZRAEL. 


109 


diligence, and every remedy tested, if perchance some wizard 
probe might extract tlie bolt which Death had slipped in Cupid’s 
quiver, and fan into flame the smoldering spark of life and ani- 
mation. 

An hour passed ere tlie captain made his appearance again 
among them. 

“How is he?” inquired the anxious voice of a motherly looking 
old woman, who had shed a few hysterical tears over the untimely 
end of the young stranger. 

“I am pleased to announce much better,” returned the honest 
ofiicer with evident satisfaction. “But he was almost <rone — ah 
most gone,” he repeated musingly, “so near the other world in 
fact that I had almost despaired of his ever opening his eyes again 
in this.” 

“Yes, madam,” he added clieerf ully ; “I have great hopes of 
his recovery, great hopes. I flatter myself with the belief that 
we have conquered the enemy, and have, if I mistake not, cheated 
for once the grim monster of his prey. His condition, both phy- 
sical and mental, is greatly debilitated, as a matter of course, but 
all that human skill can do, is being done, and I cherish the hope 
that he will pull througli after all, in spite of the odds against 
him.” 

Myra breathed freely once more, until his searching glance rest- 
ing at length upon her, he continued feelingly: “Miss Marston, 
I have to congratulate you. You have saved, not only a fellow 
creature, but a gentleman. We owe much to your impulsiveness, 
for had a moment more been lost, we all well know the fatal con- 
sequences. I have known the young gentleman from a youth, and 
could never have forgiven myself had not every exertion been 
made to rescue him from the sad fate which so imminently threat- 
ened him. He has traveled frequently with me, and I have always 
found him a most amiable and agreeable companion. He is a 
noble young fellow, and I can only add that I trust he will, in a 
day or two, be sufficiently restored to thank you in person.” 

She did not reply, but acknowledged his felicitation by a bow 
only, and a look that spoke more than words. She would have 
disclaimed the credit so generously conceded, would have declared 
herself the debtor, but she could not. The episode of tlie even- 
ing had been of so startling a nature, so strange and new to her 


no 


MYRA. 


untutored eyes, as to well-nigli deprive her of tlie power of speech 
during the period of anxiety and suspense. 

No one seemed inclined to renew tlieir several diversions, and 
a general movement was made toward the state-rooms. 

The invalid was reported ‘‘convalescent” on the following 
morning, and much curiosity was manifested by the fair sex to 
behold the dark-haired Apollo — the hero of the night. 

Myra was sitting in the saloon a few days later, glancing 
listlessl}^ over the pages ot a late novel, — although her thoughts 
were anywhere but with tlie fated heroine, — when — strange echo 
to her reverie! Captain Baley was seen approaching, bearing on 
his arm a tall, graceful figure, whicli lier quick eye instantly re- 
cognized as the reanimated form she had beheld pale and pros- 
trate in the yellow moon-beams. 

“Miss Marston, Mr. Fairfield desires an introduction to his pre- 
server,” began the worthy veteran by way of presentation. 

She rose in some confusion, as the gentleman referred to was 
bowing his acknowledgments. 

He looked the hero — cap-a-pie: commanding in person, elegant 
in manner, gallant and deferential. In age he might have ranged 
anywhere between twenty-five and thirty; for while his appear- 
ance bespoke youth, his polished mien and general bearing proved 
him no tyro in society and the world. He looked rather hag- 
gard, and not a little worsted from his recent experience, but 
witli returning life his face had resumed its native hue, and 
showed a complexion dark and clear, and an expression mild yet 
resolute. 

Myra came near starting as his eyes met hers. Something in 
their midnight fascinated and perplexed her. Where had she 
seen that face before? Surely it was the counterpart of some 
familiar visage ! The spell lasted but an instant, and the delusion 
vanished as a rich, manly voice declared his gratitude, the simple 
avowal cf which needed only its own earnest frankness as a voucher 
for its sincerity. The quivering nostril and sudden flush upon the 
olive clieek evinced undeniable emotion as he said: “I have no 
words in wiiich to thank you; I owe you a debt 1 can never 
cancel.” 

“ Oh say not so I” protested the embarrassed girl, feeling secretly 
annoyed at being thus credited with a service she had never ren- 


FROM THE CLASP OF AZRAEL. 


Ill 


dered. ‘‘You have nothing for which to thank me. You greatly 
overestimate the petty assistance which ’twas my privilege to extend 
to a fellow-being in distress ; and I deserve no credit for follow- 
ing the dictates of conscience and impulse, since however eager 
might have been my wish to save you, beyond that wish I was 
powerless as an infant. 

“Captain Baley, here, has shamed me more than once by con- 
gratulating me upon imaginary exploits; and it is to him, I pre- 
eume, that I owe the error into which you, like others, have fallen. 
I hold no lien upon your gratitude, I assure you ; I merely acted 
as any one present would have done had circumstances been other- 
wise; and if, by means of a more acute sense of hearing and 
keener eyesight, I was in any way instrumental in forwarding the 
rescue, that consciousness alone were recompense ample beyond 
desert.” 

A mingled look of surprise and admiration played upon the 
countenance of the handsome stranger, but the quiet acquiescence 
which signified he would not alarm her delicacy by a reiteration 
of his obligation, was more eloquent implied than expressed. 

“ You will find in Mr. Fairfield the hero of quite a thrilling ad- 
venture ; and as you like romance. Miss Marston, persuade him to 
relate the story in detail. How he fell into the hands of robbers, 
their midniglit council, their resolve to take his life, unprecedented 
magnanimity of one of the band, who released him under cover 
of darkness, and furnished him with a dug-out in which to make 
good his escape; how his canoe was finally capsized; his sensa* 
tions up to the time of his losing consciousness, etc., etc. A re- 
markable story. Miss! a remarkable story! Why! would you 
think it? My hair actually stood on end as I listened: 7, who 
from a boy have been brought in frequent contact with such des- 
peradoes as he describes; and if it affects you proportionately, I 
can insure him a spell-bound auditor. You will find him a trac- 
table subject, and a most interesting narrator,” observed the 
good-natured captain, as his ready wit suggested the propriety 
of retiring. 

Myra shuddered as he ran through the catalogue of horrors with 
easy fluency, and a look of unutterable sadness stole into the mel- 
ancholy eyes as they remarked the movement. 


112 


MYRA. 


“Such stories are not for sensitive ears,” interposed the young 
man gloomily. 

“Tell me,” said Fairfield when they were alone, “was it you 
whom I heard singing on that eventful night? I thought it was 
an angel’s voice,” he went on dreamily. “1 have often heard the 
expression : ‘Sold for a song.’ I could better appreciate: ‘Saved 
by a song.’ I had hoped againt hope, battled bravely with the 
dangers that surrounded me, confident in the belief that timely 
succor would be sent to aid me; but when 1 called aloud, and 
called in vain, an unmanly cowardice got the better of me ; my 
courage sank with decreasing strength, and my cries ceased from 
sheer exhaustion. Having been so long in the water, I found my 
limbs beginning to stiffen, and I was suddenly seized with an in- 
describable numbness, that ominous precursor which warned me 
of my impending doom. The horrible reality burst upon me, and 
in the bitterness of despair, I imagined myself resigned to the 
fate which awaited me. 

“It was at this juncture that alow, uncertain sound was borne, 
like distant music, to my ear. You can form no conception of 
that moment’s anguish. The familiar chord rent my very heart- 
strings, awakened a world of slumbering associations, and a fiood 
of memories overwhelmed me. My heart went back to home and 
its dear ones. I thought of my fond mother and my beautiful 
sister. My whole life passed before me in the twinkling of an 
eye; fieeter than thought the years rolled past, like the ever-vaiy- 
ing hues of a revolving kaleidoscope, while every hard word 
and foolish act in the shifting picture seemed burnt in flaring 
letters upon an inky tablet. I seemed standing upon the very 
brink of eternity; I could see the black seething waters of the 
Hiver of Death, beyond which all was wrapped in obscurity. A 
nameless fear took possession of me; I tried to pray, but my lips, 
alas ! refused to do their office. 

“Again that tender strain smote on my ear. ’Twas hard to die 
so young, so far from home and friends, with no well-known voice 
to lull the soul to rest, no parting word to cheer the drooping 
spirit ere it embarked for the dark unknown, and no dear familiar 
face upon which to fix the eyes in death ! ’Twas hard to die alone, 
with none to watch beside my bier but the ravenous monsters of 


FROM THE CLASP OF AZRAEL. 


iia 


the river ! ’Twas hard to rest in an unknown grave, whose cold, 
damp clods no sun-beam could warm nor violet shadow! 

“The thought w^as maddening: 1 could not die! I screamed 
for help ; the music ceased and human voices were distinctly au- 
dible. I repeated the shout — echoes mocked my cry ; reason told 
me that all was over; I fought, I struggled, I sank; a thick mist 
obscured my vision; 1 knew nothing else until I awoke to life and 
consciousness.” 

Myra w^ould fain have heard more of an experience of so strange 
and thrilling a nature. The air of mystery which enveloped the 
hero of so hazardous an adventure, his miraculous escape, the 
spice of romance attaching to their meeting, and the fancied like- 
ness to some one she had seen or knowm before, excited the live- 
liest interest within her, and set at work her speculative imagina- 
tion. 

^ The stranger might have guessed something of what was pass- 
ing in her thoughts, from the eager attention and sympathy 
with which she listened to the recital. He turned the conver- 
sation how^ever, and she, fearing to probe a wound or display an 
unwarrantable curiosity in regard to the private affairs of one 
upon whose confidence she had no claims, would not ask him to 
resume the subject 

He was frequently near her during the evening, and she had 
many opportunities for the study of his character, a problem — 
simple, yet abstruse, refuting every solution which conjecture of- 
fered, fascinating because it bafiled her. She observed him nar- 
rowly, but no trace of the resemblance that had struck her so 
forcibly at the moment of presentation lingered in the ever-vary- 
ing countenance. 

Her perspicacity was lost in perplexity. She did not dare to 
analyze her feelings, nor acknowdedge the impression that a pair 
of dark eyes and a musical voice had stamped upon her memory. 
She pondered his words long after she had sought her cabin; 
tossed restlessly upon her berth, coaxing sleep to still her rumina- 
tions. But the drowsy god was deaf to her w'ooing. 

They were nearing the Crescent City, at w’hich place they in- 
tended stopping for a week. She learned from his conversation 
that Fairfield was a native of Hew Orleans, where he had spent 
the greater portion of his life, but was now a resident of Havana, 


114 


MYEA. 


whither he intended returning as soon as he had transacted the 
business that had called him hither. Their destinations being the 
same, he attached himself to the Marston party, which arrange- 
ment, the elders being equally prepossessed in his favor, was 
highly agreeable to all parties. 

Their brief sojourn was a period of unalloyed happiness to our 
heroine, and recorded in memory’s register as the brightest page 
in her life’s history. Elmer was a faithful and instructive cicerone, 
and felt a laudable pride in showing his new friends over the pic- 
turesque haunts of his boyhood’s home. With an instinctive ap- 
preciation of the antique and beautiful, borrowed from his own 
sunny clime, heightened by travel and a year dreamed away 
under Italian skies, the amateur had ripened into a cultured con- 
noisseur, descrying beauties which less artistic eyes would pass 
unnoticed. He had entirely recovered from his plunge in the 
Mississippi, and his looks and spirits had improved accordingly. 
He had a host of friends and acquaintances in his native city, 
many of whom had heard of his late adventure, and he was con- 
stantly hailed upon the streets, and pressed upon to relate the 
tragic narrative. He evaded thier queries, declaring that the 
incident was a matter of no moment and unworthy a rehearsal; 
yet, notwithstanding the levity with which he seemed disposed 
to treat the whole affair, Myra could not fail to notice the shade 
of annoyance and unusual depression consquent upon any allu- 
sion to it. 

They were much together; the days were warm and cloudless, 
and the week promised to be one of uninterrupted pleasure. She 
found much to please and interest her, and no sight was thoroughly 
enjoyed which was not mutually shared. Places of interest were 
visited in order of note, where he was at once guide, escort and 
instructor; growing enthusiastic oftentimes in recounting some 
childish feat called to mind by familiar scenes, fraught with tender 
associations. 

She could listen for hours to stories of Eastern lands. She 
accompanied him in his voyage across the broad Atlantic, followed 
liim in his travels from burning Greece to the frozen Alps. One 
moment she stood amid the ruins of ancient Rome, the next she 
reclined in a luxurious gondola, lulled by the strains of a soft 
Italian song, as she glided noiselessly past the marble palaces of 


FROM THE CLASP OF AZRAEL. 


115 


beantiful Yeiiice. She was gazing upon the white, dazzling, cloud- 
capped heights of Mount Blanc; the scene shifted, and she was 
wandering through a scented vale, where every breeze came laden 
with the breath of roses, kissing, as it passed, the coy young aspens 
till they trembled ’neath the shy caress. Again she is rapt by the 
•entrancing melody of a Caslimere singing girl, wdiose voice is only 
equaled by the syrinda upon wliich she plays, rivaling in sweet- 
ness the Philomel or celestial bird. She liked to study his versatile 
humor, as he seemed to live over again days resurrected by his 
sensible imagery ; to mark the flasliing eye when kindled by 
excitement, or, when the pathetic was touched upon, the glisten- 
ing orbs, beneath whoso dusky drapery slumbered volumes of un- 
written poetry, telling of a soul fervid tliough gentle, unflinching 
in battle, tender in affection, fit to adorn a warrior or a lover. 

Such hours were dangerously delightful. There was a pldlter 
in the balmy dews of Indian summer, freighting with distilled 
odors each passing breeze; there was an incantation in tlie river’s 
ceaseless murmur; and the happy dreamers, unmindful of the all- 
conquering genius about whose wand were being wreathed life’s 
fairest blossoms, stopped not to reflect, lest they should sever some 
thread in the golden tissue woven ’mid music, flowers and sun- 
shine. What though the perfume of violet and magnolia lived 
only in imagination, and garnered fruits and yellow fields her- 
alded the death of the weaning year when perpetual spring-time 
reigned within? 

Oh youth! oh love! — blind and fondly confident. Why should 
they note the fleeting moments ? and the chubby god laughed and 
exulted, adding fresh tips to his jeweled arrows. But the last un- 
certain day-beam ! was it not an emblem of human happiness, tran- 
sitory e’en as ’tis brilliant ? And the falling leaves and blighted 
rose-buds! had they no silent warning? 


116 


MYRA. 


CHAPTER XIIL 
A MUTUAL SURPRISE. 

“"T" CAH’T realize that we are strangers,” said Fairfield when 
JL they had been three days together; ‘‘I seem to have known 
you always. There is something strangely familiar in your face^ 
your voice, your entire person in fact; and the idea is associated 
in my mind with green fields, clear skies, eternal spring, soft har- 
monies.” 

“ Do you believe in the transmigration of souls ?’! 

“As a general rule I have no opinion on the subject; in the- 
present instance I have half a mind to say that I do; I can ac- 
count for it on no other grounds.” 

“ Then we must have been old acquaintances in the Elysian 
Fields.” 

“Well! — ^yes; but ray memory dates from an earlier epoch. 
The retrospect savors more of the terrestrial ; and then — if, as the 
ancients contended, we drank, on leaving, of the Lethean waters, 
all recollection of an anterior existence, as well as our residence 
there, would be steeped alike in oblivion.” 

“I have a theory — one very flattering to ourselves, however. 
Each of us must have been a superior kind of ghost, with intel- 
lectual calibre of a higher order than our honorable contempo- 
raries, in consequence of which, the draught which deadened theirs 
only clouded ours.” 

“Or more probable still, there was drouth about that time, or 
an excursion party of shades leaving on the next sun-beam, which 
being the case, our potations were necessarily less copious than 
usual. I have an idea that your former estate was that of a 
marine deity; you were a siren; your liome was beneath the 
white crested waves in the pearly chambers of some spacious conch. 
See! — your ciieeks reflect the tint of your palace walls, your lips 
the hue of coral gardens, and your hair a dusky glow of Caspian 
sands. You lured unsuspecting seamen from their course, then 
left them to their fate. How many have you consigned to the 


A MUTUAL SURPRISE. 


117 


billows of despair, Miss Marston ?” he put the question abruptly, 
eagerly. 

Disregarding both compliment and query, save that a deeper 
shadow flitted o’er the pink cheek, with averted face, she replied: 

don’t like your theory; we will do away with Lethe and Ely- 
sium; I prefer the progressive system: I hold that we are in a 
higher state of existence now tlian ever before. You were nothing 
so dignified as a sailor, or I as a siren. Judging from the condition 
in whicli 1 first saw you, 1 sliould say that water was your native 
element; you were a waterfowl.” 

‘‘Did I say that I was a sailor?” 

Myra crimsoned to the roots of her hair. 

“And so I was a waterfowl,” he went on, not a little pleased at 
her embarrassment. “Let me see! — something less than a swan 
and larger than a duck: I was a goose — good. I am half inclined 
to think you are right; at least I have, in the past twenty -four 
hours, had reason to question whether I were not degenerating to 
my original state,” with a keen glance. 

“If the fancy pleases you, 1 shall not contradict it,” she rejoined 
wickedh^ painfully conscious of her late blunder. 

“It 6^05^ please me: I like it,” with a peculiar smile; “but you, 
I hold that we were kindred spirits. If I was a goose, you too 
were of the feathered tribe — something more delicate, more beau- 
tiful, but of a similar species nevertheless.” 

“A dove or a merlin ?” 

“Neither: your disposition resembles neither. You were a 

■canary, a dear little No ! better than that — you were a 

nightingale. There! — I’ve hit it at last — you were a nightingale. 
I like the nightingale; it is such a constant bird; it has one, and 
one only love. Not all the spicy odors and beauteous wealth of 
Oriental gardens can tempt it to forget or forsake its own loved 
rose. And she, worthy of her lover, unfolds her heart to its 
magic note and listens to no other. Oh happy rose ! loving and 
beloved! Change my metamorphosis. Miss Marston; drop me a 
few rounds in the creative scale: I should prefer being a rose 
above anything you could mention.” 

Myra discovered that it was late and time to retire. 

They were at the opera one evening, when a gentleman, 


118 


MYKA. 


touching her escort lightly on the shoulder, accosted him fa- 
miliarly. 

Fairfield turned, and recognizing the intruder, returned his sal- 
utation with an indifference bordering upon hauteur. 

Anotl}er tap and an important whisper, drowned in the high 
soprano of the prima-donna. 

“Mr. McLyons desires an introduction,” he said to his com- 
panion a moment later. 

She looked at him enquiringly. 

“Oh! he is ‘blue ton,’” he replied in answer to the mute inter- 
rogatory; “his lineage and bullion are unimpeachable.” 

Myra imagined that something very like a curl played upon 
the proud lips as he pronounced the words with marked emphasis. 
She had scarcely time to recover herself 'when the singer’s voice 
died away, and the subject of their remarks was bowing and smil- 
ing before her. 

Tall, well proportioned, faultless in toilet, courtly in bearing, she 
would have been at a loss to explain her instinctive repugnance; but 
there was something about his countenance she did not like. It 
might have been in the bland smile with which he accompanied 
his graceful observations — unctuous with the oil of delicate flat- 
tery, or a lurking expression about the eyes, which might have 
been handsome, only she could never determine their color, inas- 
much as they assiduously avoided hers. 

With the ease and self-possession of a polished man of the 
world, who is thoroughly conscious of his own importance, he had, 
for the time being, eyes or ears for naught else but her to whom 
he addressed his sprightliest bon-mots, politely unobservant of any 
coolness on tlie part of Fairfield, who maintained a haughty silence 
throughout the whole. His conversation bored, his complimenta 
annoyed her, since intuition taught her that this mellifluent suavity 
was the ring of a counterfeit; she could with difficulty suppress a 
sigh of relief therefore, when, with a regretful revoir^' the 
distinguished petit-maitre passed on until arrested by a fashionable 
bevy who were evidently flattered by his attention. 

“Mr. McLyons is an old friend?” when he was well out of ear- 
shot. 

“Only an acquaintance,” was the phlegmatic response, with 
just the slightest touch of sarcasm and a momentary distortion of 


A MUTUAL SURPRISE. 


119 ' 


that most expressive of all features, the mouth, which she had 
noticed once before. 

She perceived tliat the subject was not a pleasant one, and his 
name was mentioned no more between them. 

Their last day in the Crescent City was not less genial than the 
rest; the sky was as clear, the languid breeze as fragrant, still a 
cloud lowered upon Elmer’s brow. Ardent, impetuous and medi- 
tative, from early boyhood his happiest hours had been those 
passed in the fairy realm of fiction or in the wilder flights of his 
own imagination. Valiant and venturous, but docile and tender 
as a girl, his soul was the home of chivalry, yet he had never loved. 
He had known the fair of every clime, had reverenced all; but 
the wealth of his poetic heart had been lavished upon an abstract,, 
some gentle Dryad or sweet-voiced Houri, a creation of fancy, the 
inspiration of his muse. Without heed or thought he had drifted 
on, until aroused from his fanaticism, he found his ideal suddenly 
supplanted by a sprite of mortal mould ; that he, who had believed 
himself invulnerable to beauty, wealth and greatness, w^as at 
last entangled in those nameless meshes which lovers know so 
well; that he at length beheld the embodiment of liis deity, the 
goddess of his dreams; in a word — that he loved. 

But why the clouded brow and anxious eye? What! was it 
not enough that they must part on the morrow, — part, perhaps for- 
ever? Better never to have seen her, than to have known, lovedy 
and lost her 1 How he had watched the speaking eye, the soft 
suffusion of her cheek, as though in these he would read his doom ! 
But love is ever humble, distrustful of its own worth, and doubt 
is its capricious attendant. To him the volume was closed and 
clasped, with tlie precious secret locked within. How often 
through those pensive autumn nights had he kept unwelcome 
vigil, battling with the life problem, which, scorning prosaic 
reason, was left unsolved when cold, gray dawn kissed the heavy 
lids and vouchsafed a short, uneasy slumber. 

He had been out to keep an engagement and returned later than 
usual. He looked worn and grave to-night, and the vision which 
greeted him on reaching the hotel served by no means to lessen 
his disquietude. He had always thought her pretty, but ascribed 
her fascination to witchery of manner rather than to symmetry 


120 


MYRA. 


of feature; lie saw her now in a new phase, beautiful as a dream 
of Eden to the enamored eyes that feasted on its loveliness. She 
had risen and had not resumed, her seat. Was it the exquisite 
blendini^ of tints, or the peculiar style of evening toilet that showed 
n form more airy than the creamy lace which adorned it, and eyes 
more splendid tlian the jewels whose brilliant scintillations flashed 
from the white throat and wavy hair at each new pose of the 
graceful wearer, lending to nature that artistic flnish, or was it 
only a chimera aggravated by the thoughts of separation ? He 
knew not; but standing under the tall gas jets, flushed and ani- 
mated, she made a picture certainl3^ 

He could not trust himself to speak of the parting, or even to 
sit near her. This cowardice was new to him; but he feared to 
meet those e,yes and listen to that voice, which, to amorous ears, 
was like the music of a laughing rill. He sat apart and watclied 
her furtively. Suddenly he started ; the color fled from his olive 
oheek; his heart stood still, and his hand trembled violently 
It lasted but an instant. Recovering himself, he looked about 
him, thankful for the noisy conversation which held the attention 
of the several groups, so that none had remarked his agitation. 
Something on her chain had caught his eye — an odd little orna- 
ment by the way, and rather out of taste when worn with costlier 
jewels; but it was only a trifle, a childish bauble, half hidden in 
folds of yellow lace, and unnoticed by more careless observers. 
He looked again, this time more calmly. Presently he crossed 
over and joined her. 

“Miss Marston,” he began with some hesitation; “I am about 
to take an impertinent liberty. Will you promise to excuse it?” 

“The pardon shall be in proportion to the offense,” she replied, 
looking up. 

“Well, then,” he continued with a more thoughtful air, “I 
should like to inquire the meaning of that murderous weapon 
you wear. Is not a dagger a singular appendage to a young 
lady’s toilet ? Is it a declaration of war or merely a freak of 
feminine fancy ? I trust you will not deem me ifoo presumptuous 
when I beg a closer inspection.” 

“What! — this?” and she laughed lightly. “Why, I prize this 
above every trinket I possess. It is the opening chapter of a ro- 
mance — ACT THE FIRST. It was given to me by one heroic youth 


A MUTUAL SURPRISE. 


121 


who saved my life when I was a wee baby girl. This is the token 
by which I shall recognize him — my hero — when we meet, as of 
•course we shall, else the drama would not be complete. We will, 
in all probability, stumble upon each other in some out-of-the-way 
place, in a manner equally surprising, upon occasion of which, the 
closing scene will be enacted. Isn’t it romantic?” 

A strange liglit glowed in the matchless eyes as she spoke, but 
the calm exterior betrayed nothing of the ebullition wdthin. 

Yery,” when, after a minute examination, he replaced the sou- 
venir. 

‘‘This is our last night together,” he said, after a momentary 
silence; “you will not refuse me a promenade?” 

Was ever night more glorious! a night when lovers’ sighs seem 
but the fragrance of some modest flower. Their walk was upon 
u, long gallery overlooking the court-yard; there was a lull in the 
•city’s din, and the low patter of a distant fountain was just audi- 
ble, the subdued laughter of white Haiades as they frolicked in the 
snowy spray. 

Her hand slipped lightly from the arm upon which it rested. 
He caught the tiny fugitive in his own, and as though he would 
crush the fragile member in his ecstatic clasp, cried in wild exul- 
tation: “My angel! my queen! I have found you at last.” 

She would have screamed, but the sound died upon her lips. 
She stood with dilating eyes and burning cheeks, looking the 
amazement she could not utter. 

“Oh look not so! oh look not so!” he cried in passionate re- 
proachfulness. “My own! my love! my life! are you not dearer 
to me than all else on earth beside? and have I not loved you 
through all these long, long years, and sought you in every stranger 
maid I met ? Myra ! oh Myra ! you little guess the love I bear 
you. ’Twas you, a toddling infant, whose baby face incited me 
to the first heroic deed of my boyhood; and since the hour that 
1 snatched you from the fearful death which threatened yon, and 
laid you triumphantly in your mother’s arms, my heart has known 
no other idol. When I felt those chubby arms about my neck, 
and a little tear-stained cheek pressed close to mine ; when 1 felt 
your little heart beat hard against my own, a strange new feeling 
crept into my being, a feeling I can ne’er forget! kindling am- 
bition, while it pierced the very depths of my boyish heart. It 
9 


122 


MYRA. 


set my yontliful soul on fire; I felt myself a hero and a knight; and 
it was then that I registered a solemn vow, that should I live ta 
call myself a man, I would find you, search you out among the 
millions of a busy world, and win you for mine own. I worshipped 
you in ideal, and my heart has never wavered; but when I find 
the reality surpassing all that fancy painted, words are but vain^ 
I cannot speak my adoration. Give me! oh give me the life I 
saved!” 

She did not speak, but stood mute and passive, while her soul 
drunk the words of his passionate pleading. 

“But why this silence? Speak. Have you no word for the 
man who would give his life to call you his own ? You are mine 1’ 
mine ! — ^jmu cannot oppose what Fate decrees and Heaven ap- 
proves; else by what mysterious Providence are we thrown again 
across each other’s paths? 

“You do love me,” he went on excitedly; “I read it in the face 
you fain would screen ; but oh ! be true to yourself and me, for you 
little know the nature with which you have to deal. Better to 
have left me to my watery grave than consign me to a more piti- 
less doom.” 

He paused, and a painful silence followed. The truth at length 
beamed upon her. This, then, was he^ her hero, the peerless and 
the brave. How strange the words sounded ! and yet how often 
had she repeated them! her hero! Her heart throbbed an echo 
to each word as it fell. A fearful struggle was waging within as 
the slender figure swayed with suppressed emotion. At last from 
the depths of her secret soul came a half-drawn sigh, soft as tho 
flutter of a Peri’s wing. 

Tears stood in the hazel eyes raised to meet his own, only ta 
fall again beneath his impassioned gaze. 

The accents were low and uncertain, telling of the humiliation 
the confession cost her: “If it be wrong, forgive me; if un- 
womanly, hate me; if weak, then pity me; I cannot be false to- 
myself and you.” The proud head fell, and the voice died away 
in the faintest whisper: “Elmer! I love you.” 


A THRILLING NARRATIVE. 


123 


CHAPTEK Xiy. 

A THEILLING NAEKATIVE. 

H ome again ! Elmer had, by an ingenious calculation, as- 
certained that his most direct route to Havana lay through 
B ; which being the case, he could not deny himself the plea- 

sure of calling at the paternal mansion, and testing the hospitality 
of those who had proved themselves such delightful traveling 
companions. 

Very gratifying he found it as he sat to-night in the spacious 
drawing-room, whose winter garniture and cheery light made an 
enviable picture of home and comfort. Heavy curtains hung in 
folds about the broad windows to shut out December’s chilling 
blast, which played ^oliaii airs through the paneled doors and 
crevices, and in its wild sweep over field and fen, smote on the ear 
like orphans’ sobs or widows’ moans, in striking antithesis with the 
merry voices within. The blazing wood fire cast a ruddy glow 
over the apartment, lending a brighter tinge to the soft carpet and 
sumptuous hangings. 

Myra shivered. 

“What is it?” he asked anxiously. 

“Only the wind,” she replied lightly. “I dislike to hear it — 
it always fills my mind with weird fancies, which are not only dis- 
agreeable but depressing. It has a language I could never master; 
sometimes I imagine that it actually speaks, and oftentimes have 
lain awake for hours together, when all else was silent, trying to 
interpret its mystical dialect.” 

“Then you must not think of it. You are, like myself, I fear, 
rather prone to the visionary. Such fantasies, however, though 
fascinating, are irrational, and should not be indulged. At least, 
I intend to be very exacting for the short while we are together, 
jealous— if you will; and shall honor with my cordial hatred 
the envied object, be it animate or inanimate, that robs me of a 
thought or smile that might otherwise be mine. Changing the 
subject, is the gentleman I met last evening your cousin-german ?” 
“No. We are related neither by consanguinity nor affinity; 


124 


MYRA. 


and yet, he is my own brother. There now! there is a riddle for 
you,” she added with provoking mystification. 

‘‘A little Sphinx !” he retaliated, in the same teasing strain. 

“Do I look very frightful? Oh! I comprehend your mean 
ing,” her eyes sparkling with spirit and mischief; “you have a 
hope that I may vent my chagrin in self-destruction, should you 
prove a clever (Edipus. Don’t flatter yourself with any such 
idea; I will not be so easily gotten rid of.” 

“Tantalizing, irresistible creature!” muttered the lover, half 
fond, half petulant. 

“But the riddle?” 

“ I g:ive it up.” 

“A brother by mutual regard.” 

“A tie more lasting than kinship. He is a most engag:ing com- 
panion, certainly; I can’t think when I have met one with whom 
I was more entirely pleased.” 

“Every one likes Lionel,” said Myra warmly, happy to sing the 
praises of her favorite. “He is universally beloved, and de- 
servedly so; for underneath that placid countenance breathes one 
of the noblest souls that ever adorned a mortal tenement.” 

“Just the opinion- 1 had formed of him. He is well versed in 
foreign lore, and extensively traveled also. Harrison — Harri- 
son,” he repeated meditatively; “our transatlantic experiences ap- 
pear to have beer, very similar — strange we have never met be- 
fore.” 

“Hot strange at all. Lionel has not been abroad of late years; 
and besides, being signalized bj^ no external peculiarities, you 
would naturally pass Ms unnoticed, like the hundreds of other 
strange faces one sees in traveling. What I do think surprising 
though, is, that we should have remained together for more than 
a week, without even a suspicion, on the part of either, as to the 
other’s identity.” 

“There I differ from you. Your mother, you must remember, 
was, at the time of our first meeting, quite ^mung, and a fragile 
invalid, the hectic flush of whose cheek was altogether different, 
I assure you, from the bloom of health and happiness such as she 
now wears. Your father, who was spare, and in appearance a 
mere youth, is now corpulent and bearded. As for yourself — well ! 
I dare say fourteen years are apt to work some slight changes in a 


A THRILLING NARRATIVE. 


125 


young lady of three summers. Of myself I will not speak; a 
wilful, impetuous boy, and by no means distingue, to say nothing 
of the excitement and confusion consequent upon the scene al- 
luded to, and the hasty exit I was compelled to make in order to 
catch my train, which had already started, leaving no time to en- 
quire either names or localites; so on tlie whole, I do not think it 
at all remarkable tliat either they or I should have failed to re- 
cognize the other; indeed, it wmuld have been extraordinary had 
it been otherwise. 

“As for the suspicion, I cannot answer for that. I can’t tell 
the sleepless^ nights 1 have spent soliloquizing on this wise: ‘Four- 
teen years ago, — three years old; seventeen now, — right! Gol- 
den curls, — wrong! hair might have turned darker as she grew 
up; very probably it did. Eyes — eyes; let me see! eyes — I can’t 
think! Father spare, mother delicate; it won’t do! the former 
might have grown flesliy with age and the latter recovered ; — oh ! 
pshaw ! what a fool I am !’ ” 

A merry laugh from his companion answered the recital. 

“Mother and father were so disturbed at not being able to dis- 
cover your name or whereabouts,” she said, when her mirth had 
subsided, “and have regretted it so often since. They made dili- 
gent inquiries after your departure, but no one present could fur- 
nish the desired information.” 

“Did no one else regret it?” archly. 

“No,” with a captivating insouciance. 

“Granted. You are skilled in the use of that little negative, I 
see,” he continued playfully. And then more gravely: “But se- 
riously, Myra, tell me, looking back from the summit upon which 
we now stand, are you sorry that we were so long in finding each 
other out?” 

“No,” she answered brightly; “I would not have it otherwise, 
would not vary the smallest particular; for in so doing, you would 
sever the thread of romance, which, you must acknowledge, is a 
pleasing sequel to our mutual attachment. Had you, by any 
chance, have recognized me sooner, you might have been influ- 
enced by imaginary rather than the true dictates of your own 
heart; while 1, on the other hand, in consideration of the debt of 
gratitude I so justly owed you, should have felt in duty bound to 
accept you,. regardless of whether I liked you or not. I feel much 


126 


MYRA. 


happier to know tliat yon loved me for myself alone, and as an en- 
tire stranger, with a mind unbiased, either for or against. So yon 
see, it was all exactly as it should have been. Confess that I am 
right.” 

“Yes, yon are right; it was all exactly as it should have been,” 
he conceded unhesitatingly; “I was drawn toward yon by an ir- 
resistible impulse^ from the first moment of our meeting; and al- 
though I had not vanity enough at the time to hazard the bare 
supposition that felicity so consummate could ever be mine, I 
know now that my love was not wholly unrequited; which circum- 
stance is proof conclusive of what I have so often asserted, that 
onr hearts were joined in heaven.” 

In reciprocal chat the hours sped by; their thoughts naturally 
drifted toward the future, and the conversation gradually became 
more serious. 

Myra looked nnusnallj^ grave, as though she were revolving a 
question of great moment. 

“Elmer,” she said at length, “would you do>anything I asked 
you ?” 

“Do you doubt it?” reproachfully. 

“Well, then, I hope you will not think me inquisitive, for in- 
deed it is not for the mere gratification of idle curiosity that I 
ask it; but it has troubled me so much, and I feel that I have a 
right to know. 

“I want you to tell me all about those dreadful robbers; how 
you came to be captured, in the first place, and more wonderful 
still! when once in their clutches, why you were permitted to es- 
cape. I can’t think that you regret your natant exploits, since 

,” he did not interrupt her with a happy re-assurance, such 

as she had expected, and adopting a more modest phraseology, she 
concluded with a vivid blush: “since but for that, we might never 
have known each other. 

“I have thought so much about it,” she explained, her embar- 
rassment increasing, as, from his silence, she feared lest she had, 
in some way, excited his displeasure, or else have made an undue 
exhibition of her fondness. “ It has even intruded upon my 
dreams; and do you know that I have sometimes fancied there 
was a mysteiy attendant upon your midnight adventure which 
you were rather loth to discloseT’ 


A THRILLING NARRATIVE. 


127 


The love-light, which a moment before had illumined his noble 
•countenance, fled at the words which fell from the rose-bud lips, 
innocent, as to intention, as dewdrops from their sister blossom. 
His expression was balefully dark, as turning sadly from her, he 
•covered his face with his hands. 

Myra was nonplused. She gazed at him in mute astonishment, 
unable to define her emotions. Sorrow for having caused him 
pain, wounded pride and resentment struggled for mastery. What 
had she done to merit that silent rebuke? and what reason could 
be assigned for this singular behavior — this evident aversion to a 
-subject of such vital interest to them both. A vague apprehen- 
sion seized her. 

A minute elapsed ere he spoke, and wdien he did, his voice fal- 
tered. 

“ Myra,” he said gloomily, why should I tell you ? Why did 
you ask me? The circumstance is better forgotten than remem- 
bered. I feel and know that you are deeply concerned in all that 
aflects my happiness; but it is because I love you better than my 
life, and value your peace far more than my own, that I would 
fain conceal from you what 1 know would cast a damper upon 
your tender, sunny nature.” 

A look of unutterable grief clouded the habitually bright face 
.as she asked bitterly: “Is this then my portion? Am I to be the 
participant of your joys without the privilege of alleviating your 
sorrows? Ho you disdain my sympathy? or do you look upon 
me merely as a wayward child — like a new toy, amusing for the 
hour, but a worthless incumbrance in time of trouble? You 
cruelly wrong me, Elmer; I will share all, or none.” 

“I do not disdain your sympathy, indeed I do not,” he remon- 
strated earnestly. “ If I have wronged you, it was only to save 
you pain; and if I have been unjust, you have repaid me ten- 
*fold. 

must be told ! you have aright to demand it,” he exclaimed 
desperately. Then peering eagerly into hers with his great search- 
ing eyes, his words were low and hurried: “Myra! do you know 
what you have asked ? Ho you know that you have asked me to 
relate a tragedy, — to reveal a dark secret of which I alone am the 
guardian ? Are you sure that you will never betray my trust should 
I consign it to your keeping?” 


128 


MYEA. 


Her countenance changed. Oh! the horrible suspicion that 
filled her mind ! sending the color from her cheeks, leaving them 
wliite and ghastly. She recoiled involuntarily, and strove to re- 
lease the hand he had held while speaking. 

His attention was arrested by the movement, and for the first 
time he remarked her pallor. 

‘‘Great heavens!” he cried in unfeigned surprise and dismay, as^ 
the awful implication of his own words evolved slowly from the 
hazy recesses of his perturbed intellect, “ what means this sudden 
distrust ? That look you wear will break my heart !” 

His clieeks mantled, and kindling coruscations, which might 
have been born of pride or ire, fiashed from the piercing eyes, 
like electric sparks from an angry storm-cloud. “ What dread- 
ful thing is in your thoughts? You need not shrink from me as 
though you believed me a thief or a murderer! I have com- 
mitted no crime, Myra; my hands and conscience are alike unsul- 
lied. No stigma has ever rested upon the name I asked you to 
share. God forbid that I should be guilty of an act so base ! It 
was 

The Robbee’s Stoey 

to which I alluded; his former connection with one very dear to 
me, and the one rasli, yet fatal deed that brought sudden grief ta 
so many loving hearts, cruelly bereft, of tlie two beings most dear 
to her on earth, the sweetest, purest soul that ever breathed, and 
blasted forever his own glorious youth; until, in the anguish of 
despair, he sought to flee from his conscience and his kind, where,, 
maddened by remorse, he at last became what he now is, a cast- 
away and an outlaw. It was this — the recollection of what her 
sufferings must have been, and pity for the fall and hopeless de- 
gradation of a once noble spirit — that occasioned the emotion you 
have just witnessed.” 

Her color flowed back. “ Forgive me, Elmer,” looking beseech- 
ingly into his aggrieved yet resolute face. “I despise myself for 

the thought; and yet ,” she added with a shudder: “I could 

not suppress the awful whisper.” 

The barrier which doubt had, for a moment, erected, melted 
beneath the gentle beam. “ I have nothing to forgive,” he re- 
sponded with equal contrition. “The fault was mine, not yours. 
My words must have sounded strangely ambiguous, not to say 


A THRILLING NARRATIVE. 


12 ^ 


frigbtfnllv significant; although it did not occur to me at the time, 
that you might probably misconstrue my meaning, and deduce an 
inference other than I had intended to imply. Shall we dismiss the 
unhappy theme? or are you still desirious of hearing the details?’’ 

‘‘ If, by so doing, you violate no pledge.” 

“I am bound by no promise; honor and gratitude are sufficient 
guaranties against the betrayal of one to whom I owe my life^ 
Be his character as blackened as it may, perfidy in me would be 
no less culpable.” 

‘‘Then tell me all; T will never divulge the terrible secret.” 

“Upon one condition, that you will not allow it to prey upon 
your happiness. You will grant my behest?” 

“ Tes, I promise.” 

“Well, then!” began the reluctant narrator, “you must, in the- 
first place, understand something of the commission which called 
me hither. I was connected with a firm, owning extensive landed 
estate in Eastern Louisiana, for the collection of rents and general 
supervision of which an agent was sent out annuall3^ The gen- 
tleman who had for years acted in that capacity resigned a few 
months since, in consequence of which, I was at once appointed 
his successor. Finding the counting-room grow dull and irksome, 
and pining for the old familiar scenes, the offer was gladly ac- 
cepted. 

“Adopting as my motto the prudent maxim, ‘business first and 
pleasure afterwards,’ I proceeded straight to the plantations, where 
a few weeks of patient industry served to fulfil the mission for 
which I came. With a large sum of money upon my person, I 
set out for the landing, twelve miles distant. Mine host, who was 
a cautious and I think a somewhat timid man, questioned me as 
to tlie condition of my arms. I laughingly replied that 1 had none. 
Tlie good fellow^ seemed astounded when I remarked gaily that 
‘ I was a peaceable character, and never carried concealed weapons.’ 

“‘I don’t reckon jmu have been much in this country,’ he ven- 
tured. 

“‘Yes, I was raised here; but no one would know of the roll 
of bank-notes hidden away in rny inner pocket, and I had no fears 
of being molested.’ 

“He said no more, but looked at me with an equivocal expres- 
sion, which said more plainly than words, that he thought me a 


130 


MYRA. 


soft-headed chap, who would be better off at home under the tnte 
lage of a discreet guardian than in my present role as financier. 

“He insisted tliat I should at least secure a guide, to provide 
against the possibility of losing myself in the great swamp which 
I was compelled to traverse. This I declared was unnecessary ; 1 
had carefully noticed the way in coming, and was quite sure I 
would find no difficulty in reaching my destination. 

“My route lay tiirough the heart of a dense forest where reigns 
perpetual twilight, since neither the vertical rays of noon nor the 
<jrimson glow of sunset can penetrate its gloom. There was a 
wild solemnity in the scene, and a fascination in its funereal beauty. 
Trees indigenous to soil and clime hedged the narrow road on 
either side, interweaving their overlapping boughs, which formed 
a verdurous canopy. Upon their venerable trunks high-water 
marks were distinctly visible; pale gray moss hung in graceful 
festoons from the upper branches, while it clung about the lower, 
dark and feculent, lending to tlie dead and leafless a weird aspect. 
Black veiled nuns stalked back and forth from out the shadows, 
motioning their heads in solemn warning as now and then some 
poisonous reptile crawled from out the tangled undergrowth, and 
twining itself about their phantom-like forms, shook the sable 
drapery. The spectral hallucination filled my mind with an inde- 
scribable awe; nature appealed on every hand to my higher being, 
and I felt a subdued reverence stealing over me. Narrow bayous 
were crossed at intervals, witli the exception of which, no shifting 
of scenery relieved the eyes weary of its monotony. 

“My thoughts naturall}^ turned inward, arid a sense of loneli- 
ness beguiled me into reverie. I had allowed myself ample time 
to catch the boat at noon, so rode leisurely on, paying but little 
heed to my surroundings. When I had gone a considerable dis- 
tance, and thouglit it about time I was reaching the end of 
ray journey, I suddenly awoke from my day dream and looked 
-about me. I was in a small opening, where the debris of a saw- 
mill lay strewn about the ground, and from which new and deep 
rutted roads diverged in every conceivable direction. 

“Imagine my sensations! The dreadful reality burst upon me: 
I was lost! and that in what seemed an impenetrable wood, with 
no companion save ferocious beasts and reptiles. How I repri- 
manded myself for my folly I I had passed the forks where I was 


A THRILLING NARRATIVE. 


131 


to have turned, and in following the broader and apparently most 
traveled, road had been led, heaven only knew where! I looked 
at my watch; it had stopped. I had neglected to wind it up. 
This I remembered with chagrin, and added to my list of omis- 
sions. The sky was cloudy, and being without a compass, I had 
no means of ascertaining either time or course. 

“No time was to bo lost, so I at once set about extricating my- 
selt from the difficulties into which carelessness had plunged me. 
I held my breath and listened, if haply I might hear a human 
voice. No such music greeted my ears; but the hiss of a venom- 
ous serpent near by caused my horse to make an unexpected 
plunge, and rearing upon his haunches, came near lifting me from 
the saddle. I tried in vain to determine by which of the roads I 
had entered the glade; they all looked one and the same; reason 
furnished me no clue, and deliberation only increased my per- 
plexity. Trusting entirely to chance, I took the one nearest by, 
thinking thus to retrace my steps or else reach a habitation or 
opening of some kind, which would put me again in the main 
road. My way was circuitous, and greatly obstructed by fallen 
trees and a tangled network of vines and shrubs, rendering pro- 
gress slow and arduous. I traveled for hours in this style with- 
out the slightest prospect of bettering my condition. My hopes 
descended as 1 perceived that I was wading deeper and deeper 
into the labyrinth ; night was hard upon me, and my appetite con- 
siderably whetted by an indefinite postponement of supper. All 
at once a small clearing dawned upon my delighted ken; my 
heart gave a bound as visions of French rolls and coffee arose be- 
fore me in tantalizing delusion. I quickened my pace and emerged 
from the thicket, when, behold I the ruins of the old saw-mill 
loomed up in silent derision from out the shades of dusky eve ! 
I had been traveling in a circle, and now stood upon precisely the 
;same spot which I had occupied in the morning. My spirits fell 
below' zero. 

“Filled with dismay, I slackened the rein, and leaning foiwvard, 
patted encouragingly the glossy neck of my tired steed. I had 
still a lingering hope that instinct might achieve what my sagacity 
had failed to accomplish. The intelligent animal seemed to un- 
derstand the mute caress, for he rubbed his head affectionately 
against my hand and stepped boldly forw^ard. Re picked his way 


132 


MYRA. 


lightly through the bushes, and soon struck a narrow bi’idle path,, 
replete with briers and obstructions without number. Darkness 
ere long had gathered the world under her raven pinions, and my 
quick ear caught ever and anon the cry of a panther or barking 
of a wolf as a faint echo resounded in the distance. With every 
sense upon the alert, my emotions were any thing but enviable, as 
my horse groped his way slowly through the blackness. 

‘‘I suppose it was not quite midnight, although, in my excited 
frame of mind, I thought it rnucli later, when, judging from the 
more muffled sound of his hoofs and the absence of brushwood, I 
congratulated myself that we had at last regained the beaten track. 
That day’s teachings had impressed a salutary lesson, calling to 
remembrance that other journey of which it was so strikingly 
typical : the pain and suffering in store for those who, througlr 
carelessness or self-love, forsake the right, and when once astray,, 
how rugged and how wearisome the path by which they must re-^ 
turn ! 

“ I had not gone far, when quicker than thought, an unseen hand 
grasped my l)ridle; alight flashed before my eyes, which the next 
instant were bandaged ; a pistol was placed to my head with the om- 
inous warning to ‘hold my tongue, if I knew what was best for me,’ 
and my pockets rifled. My blood ran cold, for I knew too well the 
nature of the characters into whose hands I had fallen. The ex- 
act number of men I could not determine; but I felt one on either 
side, and was apprised of the proximity of several others, as with; 
strained ears I caught fragments of their murderous confabula- 
tion, carried on in a rough stage-whisper, and of which the lo\w 
muttered words ‘authorities’ and ‘a clear waste of ammunition’’ 
were distinctly audible. My feelings can be better imagined than, 
described, as I listened. 

“‘Take him to the General,’ suggested one; ‘the job will be 
cleaner by daylight ; at any rate the river bottom will leave no 
traces.’ 

“A coarse laugh followed this last observation, and the com- 
pany moved off. 

“ In less than an hour we came to a sudden halt, when I was 
lifted from my saddle and led into a small, toppling shanty, which, 
in accordance with my own conjectures, stood in the densest por- 
tion of the wood. The bandage was taken from my eyes, but it 


A THRILLING NARRATIVE. 


133 


was some minutes before 1 could become sufficiently accustomed 
to the glare, consequent upon tlie sudden transition from darkness 
to light, to take in the scene before me. 

“ Four drunken outlaws were carousing around a small table, over 
which cards and whiskey bottles were strewn promiscuously. A tall 
dark man — whom I afterwards learned was the ‘ General,’ to whom 
they alluded at the time of my capture — sat in a farther corner, 
apparently absorbed in the contents of a newspaper. He rose as 
my conductors addressed him by the title afore-mentioned, and I 
imagined that ho started and turned pale as his eyes encountered 
mine. It lasted but an instant, however; he returned their greet- 
ings with dignified forbearance, listened with grave attention as 
they recounted the proceedings of the evening, after which, he 
-Stepped forward and invited me to partake of their ‘rude hospi- 
tality,’ with the grace and deference of a courtier. Reason taught 
me the folly of resistance, and that my one and only hope lay in 
a show of submission. Hungry and exliausted, I sliould have 
found it hard indeed to decline a civility so politely extended; so 
with an assumed nonchalance, I took the seat allotted me with 
what grace I could muster, and despite my impending fate, par- 
took of the unpalatable food with a keen relish. 

“ The dark man had resumed his paper, and while pretending 
to be poring over its columns, 1 felt a vague consciousness, was 
watching my every movement, since, whenever 1 chanced to look 
ill that direction, liis eagle eyes were upon me. He was well pro- 
portioned and handsome; in age about fifty, slightly gray, and on 
the whole, an imposing figure; with an air of intelligence and re- 
finement ill befitting his present surroundings. 

“Supper over, I was led by my captors into an adjoining 
apartment, where I was securely bound, and every precaution 
taken against my escape. Then followed the council, the main 
import of which I could catch through the cracks in the rude 
partition. The reckoning up of the day’s gains appeared to 
be first on programme; the money was duly counted, after 
which a low chuckle, and murmurs of ‘a fat purse’ and ‘an easy 
subject’ evinced their entire satisfaction. The question as to the 
time and place of my quietus was next introduced, and contem- 
plated from every standpoint. Great diversity of opinion pre- 
vailed, betrayed by the noisy excitement of the intoxicated band. 


134: 


MTEA. 


The dark man rebuked them severely for their love of blood, and 
suggested that the prisoner be released upon the conditions that 
he take an oath against any disclosure regarding their 83 dvan re-^ 
treat. This last proposition was met on all sides by jeers and 
fiendish laughter, indicative of supreme contempt. A drunken 
broil ensued, and a revolt was threatened, as they accused their 
chief of treacher}^ and pictured themselves dislodged by the of- 
ficers of the law from their comparatively safe abode, and expir^ 
ing upon a gallows or dragging out a weary existence in the 
narrow cells of a state prison. ‘No, there was but one way out 
of the difficulty; he must be made awa}’ with, and that, too, be- 
fore sunrise.’ 

“ ‘ Do as you like, I shall have nothing to do with it,’ said the- 
stern, commanding tones of the first speaker, accompanied by a 
loud rap upon the table, which being the signal to retire, the 
council adjourned for the night. 

“ Conceive of my feelings when I heard the awful verdict ! I had 
vainly hoped that as avarice alone had prompted the assault, they 
would, since they had possessed themselves of every valuable about 
my person, at least have enough of humanity left to spare my 
life and allow me to depart in peace. With this assurance came 
a recollection steeped in wormwood and gall, as I thought of the 
shame and humiliation it would cost me to return empty-handed 
to those who liad reposed unbounded confidence in my honor and 
ability, with no plea for the deficit save the relation of an inco- 
herent and unreasonable story, upon which would be turned the- 
cold, incredulous ears of a doubting world ; for while I knew that 
my kind employers would believe my report, I could not forget 
that I had enemies as well, who would gloat over the cruel stain 
cast thus upon my name. ‘But alas for human hopes!’ I had not 
realized that I indeed must die so soon I I know not what I felt; 
words would but mock my effort! Such description as language 
could portray would be like the unsightly daub of a rude 
artist when compared with the exquisite pencilings of the great 
Original. I had never until that moment believed myself a 
coward; but if it was cowardly to grow pale with fear and sicken 
with horror, then surely I was a pitiable poltroon, as I lay upon, 
the hard, rough boards and thought of my relentless doom. When 
I remembered that 1 should nevermore behold the bright-eyed 


A THRILLING NARRATIVE. 


135 ^ 


Phoebus climb the azure heights, nor hear the forest warblers sing 
the matin lays I loved so well ; that ere a few short hours had down 
away I would rest upon a softer couch, with no monument to m}^^ 
memory save unextenuated ignominy — since no friendly scribe was 
near to pen a line to those I loved, who would drop, as a tribute to 
my memory, a regretful tear! 

“Their voices ceased, and soon all was silent as the tomb. 
Silent as the tomb ! how suggestive the word ! The regular 
breathing and an occasional snore told ere Idng that heavy slum- 
ber had settled upon the eyes that dare not look abroad at day 
upon the works of an outraged Maker. I made a desperate at- 
tempt to free myself. I might as well have tried to heave the 
universe. For a moment my pulses stopped, and my blood seemed 
freezing in my veins. A chilling numbness was creeping over me ; 
I suppose I must have fallen into a light sleep, since I dreamed! 
visions no less frightful than my waking fancies. I was in Italy; 
had gotten separated from my party ; been captured and held for 
ransom by the banditti. My friends were to come and release 
me on the morrow ; my jailers had quarreled, and one of the gang, 
a treacherous Italian, swearing vengeance upon his colleagues, and 
resolving to cheat them of their booty, had stolen into the old 
tower in which I was sleeping, and poised a shining stiletto above 
my heart. 

“I awoke with a start; the dark man was standing over me, 
gazing intently upon my face. My first impulse/ was to scream; 
he motioned me to silence. I obeyed. A cold perspiration was 
oozing from my forehead as I stared blankly at the figure before 
me, — the dream and reality being so strangely confounded as to 
fill me with a stupid terror. 

“‘Your name?’ he asked in alow, stern voice, that recalled me 
to myself and demanded a truthful answer. 

“‘Elmer Fairfield,’ I replied distinctly. 

“ ‘ Your mother’s V 

“ ‘ Ethel Ray.’ 

Myra looked up expectantly. 

“‘Her sister’s?’ 

“‘Bertha Ray.’” 

“Bertha Ray !” exclaimed his companion in surprise. 

“Yes; do you know her?” he asked, with brightening visage. 


136 


MYRA. 


“Mj dearest friend and teacher,” rejoined she feelingly. 

“Then you were a pupil at Hey wood?” 

“ Yes.” 

“Dear Aunt Bertha!” sighed tlte young man sadly; “her life 
has been indeed a checkered one; unseltish, useful and irreproach- 
able. Would that the world were peopled by spirits alike blame- 
less.” 

“But the robber,” interrupted Myra, her excitement at its 
height; “you have not told me all.” 

“No,” returned her companion sorrowfully, “you have as yet 
heard the preface only.” Resuming the severed narrative, he con- 
tinued: “No tracer of the recent clouds lingered upon the Argus- 
eyed firmament, and white moon*beams streamed in through the 
dingy panes of the small window. I could not study his fea- 
tures by the dim illumination ; but when he enquired the name of 
the sister, it was in softer intonations; and as I pronounced it, his 
head fell forward, as in shame or grief, and the great chest heaved, 
as stooping hastily, he loosed my shackles, and providing himself 
with a dark lantbrn, bade me follow him. I gratefully complied, 
and as I stepped cautiously out into the night, there arose from 
my heart a prayer of thanksgiving for this my providential de- 
liverance. I walked on in silence by the side of the mysterious 
stranger, for 1 felt instinctively, that be he man or fiend, his in- 
tention was to forward my escape rather than to do me 
injury. 

“I was pondering his words, his aristocratic appearance, his 
apparent knowledge of my family, and his singular behavior; 
wondering who he might chance to be, and above all, the cause 
of his present depravity, when we came to a secluded glade 
near the banks of the river, where he stopped, and placing the 
lantern where the light would fall full upon his face, suddenly 
confronted me. 

“‘Boy,’ said he hoarsely, ‘ did you ever hear of Martin Willis?’ 

“ I started at the name, but recovering myself, I answered in 
tones as dauntless as his own: ‘Y^es; Martin Willis is dead.’ 

“‘Would to heaven that he was!’ he cried in heart-wrung bit- 
terness. The words W’ere more a groan than an ejaculation, and 
the manly figure trembled, as though writhing under the stings 


A THRILLING NARRATIVE. 


137 


•of a remorseful conscience, as torturous recollections swelled his 
bosom. 

“The truth flashed, like a ray of light, upon my benighted 
senses, and a mingled loathing and thirst for vengeance naturally 
stirred my soul as 1 stood face to face with my uncle’s murderer; 
but if I had entertained a feeling akin to hate for the dastardly 
villain I had been taught to believe him, my abhorrence melted 
into pity and forgiveness as I listened to the melancholy tale. 

“‘He had once been young and hopeful as myself, with a name 
as fair as the faultless brow upon which pain or care had nev’'er 
brooded. He had believed himself a high-minded and an honest 
man, and spurred b}- ambition, pictured in anticipation a glorious 
future, carving out for himself a bright career. He had met 
during the sunny days of rosy June the beautiful Bertha Ra 3 ^ so joy- 
ous, fresh and winsome; had sought and won her, and believed 
her all that was pure and noble. He had loved her passionately, 
madly; and in their mutual attachment, there had been but one 
<dog to their perfect happiness — an exacting disposition on his 
part and an accursed jealousy, which had wounded more than once 
the gentle heart of the being he adored. She had a dearly be- 
loved and only brother, wlio had left, some years before, the land 
of his birth to seek his fortune in the far West. She longed for 
her lover to know and esteem him, and would descant for hours 
upon his virtues. He (Willis) residing some distance from her 
home, was debarred a too rigid surveillance respecting her nu- 
merous admirers. Their betrothal had lasted but a few short 
weeks, when upon one ill-fated eve, he had broken her heart, lost 
his own soul, and heaped the ashes of foulest infamy upon their 
blighted love. 

“ ‘ He had promised to visit her at an early day, and thinking 
to give her a pleasant surprise, came in advance of the time deter- 
mined upon. Twilight shadows were gathering, when, enter- 
ing the garden which skirted the villa, he heard voices in a summer- 
house near by, and recognizing the ripple of mirth which an- 
swered a laughing observation from her companion, he stole on 
tiptoe to the side of the little arbor, and peered mischievously 
through the eglantine and honeysuckle that clustered about the 
latticed framework. He could have shrieked at the sight which 
met his astonished gaze. Upon a rustic seat sat Bertha — his 


10 


138 


MYRA. 


Bertha — her head leaning languidly against the shoulder of a 
manly figure, whose arms were dropped lightly about her waist. 
He stood rooted to the spot, stupefied with a nameless horror, as 
he watched through the hazy darkness their lover-like glances, and 
listened to their words of tender endearment. 

“‘Glancing shyly into his face, she asked roguislily : ‘What 
would Martin say? He must not know this.’ 

“‘The stranger made no reply, but taking the peach-blossom 
cheeks between his hands, pressed his lips to those raised tempt- 
ingly to his. 

“ ‘ Oh ! the unspeakable agony of that moment ! He was a 
man no longer, but a fiend and a madman ! In a frenzy of rago 
and jealousy, he drew a pistol on his hated rival and vented hi& 
wrath in the bullet that pierced his heart. A scream accompanied 
the report, and he only looked back to see his victim expiring in 
the arms of the faithless creature he had blindly worshiped. 
Alarmed at the deed he had committed, he fled from the pre- 
mises; but in his aimless Hegira, ran heavily against one of the 
field laborers, who knew and recognized him. He boarded the 
train and started for Texas. On the third day after his departure, 
he was taking dinner at a restaurant, wlien glancing over a morn- 
ing’s paper, he read the tragedy in detail. Great God ! he had 
murdered her hy'other ! This startling revelation admonished 
him to be wary, for in less than a week every state in the Union 
rang with the atrocious crime. Whither to go he knew not, since 
descriptions of his person and large sums offered for his arrest 
poured in on every hand. 

“ ‘ It was all clear to him now ; she, it seemed, had intended giving 
lurn a surprise, and for that reason had not apprised Iiim of her 
brother’s return. Such recollections but aggravated his despair, 
and more than once he would have ended bodily suffering in self- 
destruction, but that he cowered at the tlionght of being called to 
appear before the awful tribunal of an offended God. 

“‘He sought refuge in the Texas wilds, begging food at the 
scattered farm houses, and sleeping wherever he could find a 
shelter. The honest herdsmen eyed him suspiciously, and he hid 
himself in the forest, with no companion but a guilty conscience. 
At length, half starved, wretched and exhausted, he was taken 
prisoner by a company of brigands. They were about to deliver 


A. THRILLING NARRATIVE. 


139 


liiin up for the reward of his capture; he bogged hard for his 
life; they demurred, and finally relented upon one condition, that 
he would swear allegiance to their cause and become their leader. 
‘Their chief had recently died; they were coarse and illiterate, 
and dissatisfaction threatened a dissolution of the confederacy 
unless under an intelligent superior who could take charge of the 
finances and ‘Settle disputed questions.’ 

“‘Drowning men catch at straws;’ he dared not throw himself 
upon the mercies of the law, for who would believe his story? 
and he knew full well the only verdict that could be passed upon 
an assassination perpetrated deliberately and in cold blood. He 
could never hope to mingle with the outer world, since he bore 
the brand of a felon, which death itself could not erase; he could 
never hope to earn an honest livelihood, since his fame had spread 
abroad far and near; he was a stranger in a strange land, without 
money or friends, miserable and destitute; he was not fit to die. 
There was no alternative; he took the oath and entered upon his 
office. He had followed them in their rovings over the South 
and West, and they had, in time, grown to feel for him a kind of 
admiration and respect; but though he was their acknowledged 
head, he was, in reality, the most abject slave that ever breathed. 
He was afraid to offend them by word or deed, since whenever he 
did, they threatened to consign him to the keeping of his lawful 
guardians. Their crimes were undiscovered, while his was known 
in the four corners of the globe; he was entirely at their mercy 
and must cater to their whims. He never accompanied them in 
their nocturnal rambles, but was no less guilty than they; since, 
in their absence, he kept watch over their stolen lucre and sub- 
sisted upon their ill-gotten gains. He had contrived to have a 
hat, bearing his name, picked up on the river, and the report had 
gone out that he was dead; but Martin Willis lived still, and liv- 
ing, remembered !’ 

“My heart ached as he poured into my ears the demoniacal 
ravings of a tortured brain. 

“‘Iguessed your lineage the moment my eyes rested upon you,^ 
he said ; ‘ later observation confirmed my conjecture. It was her 
face,’ and muttering over ‘it was her face,’ he drew from his finger 
this ring,” continued Elmer, calling the attention of his listener 
to an exquisite solitaire which she had noticed before, and placing 


140 


MYKA. 


it upon mine, said bitterly; ‘This was to have been our betrothal 
ring; keep it, and when you know that I am dead, give it to her 
and tell her all.’ 

“Taking from the bushes a small canoe, he let it slide noise- 
lessly into the water, and bade me go. I reasoned and expostu- 
lated, implored him to fly with me. ‘I would stand by and de- 
fend him, and he would And the world less harsh than he believed 
it. He could adopt a disguise, and seek some unknown land, 
where, in penitence and tears, he might atone for the errors of 
youth and later ^^ears.’ 

“He shook his head sadly. ‘My words were idle; I knew not 
what I asked ; I invited him to certain death, from which there was 
no escape. Ho, no; it was too late! too late! he was a castaway 
and a villain ! lost beyond redemption ! His comrades might, and 
probably would, substitute liim for the missing prisoner should 
they suspect him of being an accomplice in the flight; lie little 
cared, now that he had unburdened his conscience to one who 
would fulfil his last commission. He had exacted no promise, 
but had voluntarily trusted me; trusted me for her sake; I would 
not betray him ?’ 

“I begged liini to rest easy upon that score; ‘I might condemn, 
but I was no traitor.’ 

“He had returned my money and all that they had taken from 
me, and 1 had no excuse for remaining longer. Taking the hand 
he hesitated to extend me, I turned to go. ‘Goodbye, and may 
God pity you as I do,’ I said fervently. 

“A hot, blistering tear stole down the sunburnt cheek ; and 
then, as though ashamed of the momentary weakness, he dashed 
away the gathering mist, and with a brow black as a thunder- 
cloud, pushed me rudely into the boat with the words: ‘Go, boy, 
you will unman me! but — ’ the voice had softened, but was stern, 
earnest and impressive, as he uttered the solemn warning: ^Be- 
ware of jealousy^ 

“His form disappeared in the darkness, and I was left alone 
upon the river. You know the rest.” 

Myra was weeping silently ; she had followed her lover in every 
phase of emotion, and suffered no less than he. 

“Poor Miss Ray! poor robber!” came the distressed whisper. 


A THRILLING NARRATIVE. 


141 


“ ‘ God pity them both, and pity us all, 

Who vainly the hopes of youth recall ; 

For of all sad words of tongue or pen, 

' The saddest are these — it might have been/ ” 

quoted her companion compassionately. There is a touching 
sadness in the fallen estate of the wretched wanderer. Truly, 
‘ the way of the transgressor is hard and when we witness the 
punishment — even in this life — of tliose who, when wrought 
upon by passion, ai*e impelled to an act of violence, what must 
be the scourge of those who commit malicious crime!” 

‘‘You did not tell Captain Baley this?” recalling that gentle- 
man’s announcement upon occasion of the introduction. 

“Most assuredly no; I merely gave him the simple facts, in 
order to account for the pitiable plight in which 1 was thrown 
upon his benevolence, without wearying him with particulars; 
which circumstance accounts for his very confident assertion : 
‘That the incident was without a parallel.’” 

Myra had been deeply affected by the evening’s recital ; the 
moaning wind without and the flickering fire-light within seemed 
all too relevant to the theme. It verified what she had felt intui- 
tively when at school, that behind the sunny cheerfulness of her 
warm-hearted little teacher there was a hidden history and a 
blighted youth. Strange she had never heard her mention this, 
her favorite nephew; and not singular either, since she never 
talked of self, seldom alluded to her family, and having no claims 
upon her confidence, it was not her prerogative to question her. 
It explained also her sensations at the time of his presentation, 
that his was the counterpart of some familiar countenance, as, 
since knowing of their near relationship, the likeness was remark- 
ably striking. 

“You know Aunt Bertha, our aunt,” he said, with a seriousness 
not unusual with him, “so I shall transfer my charge to you. 
Something might happen to me, you know,” he added with a sad 
smile, “in event of which, you will fulfil my trust.” 

She was loth to comply, but since he really wished it, she pro- 
mised, not without unpleasant apprehensions, however, as she re- 
membered whose hand the jewel had adorned before that of the 
present wearer. Within were traced the simple initials: “B. R. 


142 


MYRA* 


and M. W.,” circumscribing in their dainty curves a world of 
woe ! 

Don’t wear it,” he resumed, guessing the tenor of her thoughts ; 
“ I am not superstitious, but — well ! I have an idea that even gold 
and diamonds may become contaminated.” 

Myra was true to her word; and if the above disclosure haunted 
her slumbers, she was resolute in wearing a cheery smile in the 
presence of her betrothed, whose three day's stay at Yiolet Bank 
— more infinitely appreciated from the fact that long months must 
intervene ere they could hope to be similarly blest — passed all too 
soon for the happy lovers. 

“Sweetheart!” whispered Elmer at parting, “when I come 
back 1 expect to find your affection undiminished and your con- 
fidence unw-avering. Cannot 3^11 alleviate the pangs of separa- 
tion by an assurance alike consoling? Are you quite certain that 
you trust me entirely^ Myra ?” 

“ ‘ In love, if love be love, if love be oiirs, 

Faith and unfaith can ne’er be equal powers ; 

Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all,’ ” 

she answered softljq with all the native fervor of her artless, trust- 
ing heart. 

“Then ‘trust me not at all or all in all,’” he concluded plead- 
ingly. 


CHAPTEE XY. 

LUCIFEE. 

E lmer had departed, but had left a faithful likeness, so 
life-like indeed, that Mju’a almost imagined him actually 
present, and in her earnest, impulsive fashion, would while away 
many a lonely hour conversing with the dumb photo, which, in 
her lively fancy, whispered soft replies and smiled at her girlish 
enthusiasm. Letters — the lover’s carrier-dove — came and went, 
bearing on their snowy wings the tender message, each word of 
which breathed a sigii of tremulous transport, fresh from impas- 
sioned hearts. 


LUCIFER. 


143 


Strange that Lionel should have been the first confidant of the 
new light that had come so unexpectedly into her bright, young 
life, implanting deeper roses in the cheeks whose delicate tinge 
had characterized the ambitious student of two years before, who 
had toiled with tired brain and aching head over books and easel, 
asking no higher benison than a smile of approval from the kind 
instructors whose esteem she strove so honestly to win. How she 
had been ravished by the spell of her self-imposed lucubrations! 
finding in her thought-pictures delight unspeakable, while her 
-soul quaffed the ennobling waters of the Pierian spring. But 
they were gone now — those old days, with their trials, triumphs 
-and aspirations, and a newer and more unselfish purpose held her 
in thraldom. She lived now to make another blest, and earth 
never looked more bright to the ardent girl whose every thought 
and faculty merged into the one grand sentiment that was to 
make life a long, uninterrupted holiday, a season of beatitude such 
as mortals ever paint and pine for, but never realize. Love had 
'enveloped her in its fairy mantle, lending to her step a more airy 
grace, and a secret joy spoke in the music of her voice. 

This, the most generous and considerate of friends, had listened 
to the confused story with brotherly solicitude, and when it was fin- 
ished, “He has the first claims on your heart and confidence,” he 
had said. “ Be true to him, sister; he is worthy of your trust.” 

He had w^atched them together, had read their heart’s most 
•sacred pages and guessed the secret they so jealously guarded ; had 
witnessed their happiness without a selfish pang, and in his thanks- 
giving for the subjugation of self, had mingled a prayer that the 
-accepted lover might prove himself deserving of the blessing 
heaven had so graciously bestowed upon him. Disappointed in 
youth and in later years, he had learned to look for nothing else; 
but accepting his fate with sublime resignation, so perfect was the 
self-control of this quiet collected man, that whatever might have 
been the conflict within, it left no traces in the expressive counte- 
nance, beautiful sometimes in its mild serenity! 

It was now the middle of February. The season had been one 

of unusual gayety, and the military company of S designed 

eclipsing all preceding festivities, in a grand ball to be given at 

B , and anticipated for weeks beforehand by sundry merry 

belles, who regarded the event as one of more than ordinary in- 


144 : 


MYRA. 


terest. The long-wisbed-for eve at length arrived, and no lighter 
heart or more beaming face graced the occasion than those of our 
heroine. Never had she looked more lovely, and if the mirror,, 
before which she lingered for a moment before entering the 
dancing-rooms, reflected an exultant light in the kindling orbs, it 
was pardonable, since not born of personal vanity, but the thought 
of Elmer’s exclamation of delight, could he only behold her. 

The assemblage was large and select; the laugh, the jest, the 
genial mirth, swelled the social tide, and midnight was stealing 
surreptitiously upon the careless revelers. The enchanting strains 
of a string band were heard above the hum of voices, as the tired 
dancers tripped out to breathe the purer atmosphere of the more 
thinly populated halls or piazzas. 

Myra had secured a post by an open window, and stood, sur- 
rounded as usual, and exciting, by her sprightly repartee, tlie ad- 
miration and applause of her gallant attendants. 

“Would Wiss Marston give him her attention for a moment?” 
petitioned Mr. Eustace, joining the envied group: There was a 
gentleman present, Mr. McLyons, who had met her while travel- 
ing and wished to renew the acquaintance, but feared she might 
not recognize him without a second introduction. Should he pre- 
sent him?” 

“Miss Marston remembered Mr. McLyons quite well, and a 
second introduction was unnecessary.” 

“What wind had blown him hither?” Treasured reminiscences 
crowded thick and fast upon her, as the name recalled so vividly 
the brief, happy weeks she had spent in the land of flowers, not 
daring then to guess from whose presence her gladness sprung. 
Such pleasant recollections she was not long permitted to enjoy 
however, and despite her attempt at affability, she felt the disa- 
greeable sensations she had experienced at the time of their first 
meeting instantly return, as he appeared before her, elegant and 
debonair, begging “ the honor of lier hand.” 

Thankful, for once, that she was engaged for the night, she re- 
plied to that effect, and the dancers being again upon the floor, 
was soon lost in the restless throng. 

With a civil regret, he accepted the plea as a matter of course, and 
making no effort to secure another partner, established liimself in 
the stand she had just quitted, and patiently awaited her return. 


LUCIFER. 


145 


If he saw anght in her manner to evince dislike or a disinclina- 
tion to the cultivation of his acquaintance, he was careful that she 
should not discover it, and set to work at once to overcome her 
prejudice. The profound attention with which he listened to her 
lightest words, the anticipation of her half-uttered wish, the air 
of admiration and respect w'ith which he regarded her, and his 
total forgetfulness of all others, lent a charm to his address diffi- 
cult to resist. He complimented her state, her county, her village,, 
her friends, herself, and yet, so delicately withal, that she found 
it impossible to disclaim. Following up his advantage, he exerted 
to the utmost his pow’ers of fascination, and contrived to mono- 
polize the conversation to such a degree, that his less fluent com- 
petitors quietly withdrew, leaving the field uncontested in the 
hands of the distinguished stranger. 

She might have argued away her misgivings, had she not im- 
agined a sinister light in the eyes she never liked, and recalled 
the hauteur with which Elmer had met his familiarity and the 
cool sarcasm with which he had answered her inquiries respect- 
ing him. She felt depressed, uncomfortable, out of humor with 
herself and the persistent flatterer, and wondered inly why he 
should have selected her, above all others, as the recipient of his 
eloquence, which he must see was but ill appreciated. 

He adverted to their meeting at the opera in a way that would 
have gratified a more impressible subject, and called to remem- 
brance her owm observations with a preciseness that proved, how- 
ever trivial she might have deemed the incident, it had left upon, 
his memory a deathless impress. 

“You were with Fairfield when I saw you last.” 

“Yes.” 

“You met him in New Orleans?” 

“No; on the steamer.” 

“Ah! then you are familiar with the history of his late adven- 
ture ?” 

“Yes. I witnessed the rescue, and was afterwards treated to a 
full account from his own lips.” 

“Indeed? You found him highly entertaining, no doubt. A 
remarkable story! a captivating young fellow!” 

She might have truthfully declared, that, so far as her limited 
knowledge of him rendered her capable of passing judgment, he- 


146 


MYRA. 


was certainly a most agreeable gentleman, had she not deemed 
silence the more dignified response to his impertinent innuendoes. 

He was right from Havana, and could impart any informa- 
tion she desired in reference to her compagnon de voyage. 

He “supposed” she had heard of his approaching marriage. 

No; she had not heard. 

He could not vouch for the truth of the rumor; he had heard 
it discussed a good deal while there, and the bans had been pub- 
lished several weeks since. He thought tlie young lady had dis- 
played a lack of discretion in permitting the latter, since, if upon 
the nuptial eve the bridal party were found minus a groom, she 
would not be the first confiding fair who had reckoned without 
her lover. Fairfield was a rare specimen of humanity, — hand- 
some and gifted, with an inimitable skill in winning feminine 
hearts; a man to be envied above all envied men! Flirting had 
become with him more a passion than an art; it was a part of 
himself; he could not help it. Some people condemned; he 
pitied him. He did not believe that he premeditated wrong, but 
possessed a most unfortunate disposition, susceptible to that de- 
gree that he became hopelessl}^ enamored of every new beauty he 
chanced to meet, and invariably loved the last better than all 
others combined. He appeared to have no control over his affec- 
tions whatever, hence was not to be blamed if youthful nuns fled from 
a life made aimless and vapid through his faithlessness, and sought 
to immure a broken heart in the confined limits of a gloomy con- 
vent. He had met his present inspiration immediately upon his 
return from Louisiana ; she was an orphan and an heiress, and 
had lately come to Havana to live with her guardian, who resided 
there. He had at once acknowledged himself a victim to her 
■charms, and she, ’twas said, was no less infatuated wdth her poet 
suitor. His family, knowing w^ell his besetting sin, had insisted 
upon a short engagement, and through their influence, he had in- 
duced his intended to fix an early day for the final glorification. 
Her friends had perfect confidence in his fidelity, and the bride 
elect, who was a mere school-girl, was supremely happy in the 
old story of “ his first and only love,” fond and trusting ! Others were 
not so sanguine ; for while her w^ealth alone, to say nothing of her 
personal attractions, would suffice to chain a less capricious heart, 
Fairfield, with all his shortcomings, was, in the main, well-mean- 


LUCIFER. 


14T 


ing and gentlemanly, and no one could accuse him of being mer- 
cenary. It was to be hoped that he would disappoint the gossips for 
once, and redeem his reputation by a speedy fulfilment of his 
promise. The paper containing the announcement had been 
handed him on the eve of departure, and if he was not mistaken, 
he had it with him. Perhaps she would like to see it. 

Yes; she would like to see it. 

Lucifer! what could she do but listen and assent! Oh! for the 
power to fell him to the earth and trample him in the dust ! to 
tell him that each breath was a falsehood and his very presence 
pollution ! How she despised the wily sycophant who had wrecked 
her Paradise, and smiled and fawned amid the ruin he had wrought ! 
False! if he were false, then were truth a myth, and life itself a 
hollow cheat, a grim delusion ! 

How the remainder of the night was passed Myra could never 
tell; and how she managed to preserve her secret, was a mystery 
she could never fathom. It was all so confused, so like a troubled 
dream. She onl}^ know that lier head swam, the room swam, the 
world swam ; the crowd seemed a disorderly concourse of giants 
and pygmies, and grotesque figures in piebald costumes cut fan- 
tastic capers and bobbed about the floor like goblins in a witches’ 
dance. She was wildly gay, laughed louder than her wont, and 
'When she did, the silvery ripple smote on her ear like a maniac’s 
yell. She never fagged, never pleaded fatigue, never asked ces- 
sation from the dizzy whirl; and as she glided noiselessl}^ by 
some isolated group, she heard, more than once, the involuntary 
exclamation, “How beautiful!” 

Home and reflection ! These are simple words, yet what an 
•epitome of grief! 

Mrs. Marston went herself to her daughter’s room to take her 
some refreshments from dinner, but found her asleep. She knew 
.she must be tired after her evening’s dissipation, and it would be 
vcruel to disturb her. 

Asleep ! would sleep never seal her eyes again ! 

How she would have chided herself for this ungenerous distrust, 
as the reproachful echoes of a tender voice — his voice — rang con- 
tinually in her ear: “Then trust me not at all, or all in all!” But 
then the paper, the fatal paragrapii, beyond which there was no 


148 


MYRA. 


appeal! She essayed to read it. Her hand was unsteady, and the 
letters danced over the white slieet like the human forms of the 
niglit before. 

Execrations upon the wretch who, with his deceitful, lying 
tongue, had maliciously destroyed her love, her faith, her peace! 
Sorrows must needs come, but how hateful the agent through 
which the blow is dealt ! 

This was weak, cowardly ! She would read it. She would 
know the name of the enchantress who had wiled away her lover,, 
and was, ere this, the bride of AzV/?., the one being on earth to 
whom she had consecrated her heart, her life ! And yet, could 
she blame her, when she herself had been so foolishly fond, so 
artlessly confiding ? 

“We are pleased to announce that our gifted and esteemed 
young townsman, Mr. Elmer Fairfield, is soon to lead to the Hy- 
meneal altar the beautiful and accomplished Miss Miriam Palmer.- 
The marriage will take place ” She read no more. 

“ Oh ! colder than the wind that freezes 

Founts that but now in sunshine played, 

Is that congealing pang which seizes 
The trusting bosom, when betrayed.’’ 

Was she insane? Did her eyes deceive her? Oh, it could not 
be! it could not be! And she had believed him so high-minded,, 
so noble — the very soul of honor, truth and chivalry! and that 
time and separation would strengthen, rather than lessen his af- 
fection ! And she — poor unsuspecting dupe — how he must have 
laughed at her simple credulity ! Oh, the shame and bitterness of 
that moment ! 

A smouldering fire burned invitingly upon the hearth. Slip^ 
ping her feet into a pair of slippers and drawing a shawl about 
her shoulders, she arose and betook herself to her painful task. 

Yery slowly and carefully she collected every line, every trifle,, 
every dear memento ! They felt like a breathing soul, as she held 
them in her hand for one brief instant, then laid them in a heap 
upon the coals, ready to devour them. She watched the end with 
dilating eyes and quivering lip; then stooping, gathered the ashes, 
folded them in a dainty envelope and locked it in her shrine, 
along with other treasured relics. 


A WOLF IN sheep’s CLOTHING. 


149 


’Twas finished! Throwing herself listlessly upon a chair, she 
pressed her hand to her throbbing temples, and with a deep-drawn 
sigh; ‘‘Ashes tell no tales! Ah, sweet memorials of a happy 
dream ! As yon were warmest and brightest in death, so was my 
all-consnming love ! As the glow yon shed about yon, so was the 
halo around my future! But as yon witlier and to ashes fall, so 
perishes Myra’s heart !” 


CHAPTER XYL 

■“A WOLF IN SHEEP’S CLOTHING.”— FLORENCE.— AN UNOPENED 
LETTER.— OSCAR IN TROUBLE.— RODOLPHUS WOOING. 

nVTEYER was gnest welcomed witli more sincere cordiality 
than was Henidetta, who arrived a week later. Her former 
visit had been so pleasantly remembered that she liad for months 
looked forward to a more lengtliy stay at Yiolet Bank, but had 
lingered by tlie bedside of her little brother, whose severe illness 
claimed all her sisterly cares. There was an infinite relief in her 
genial companionship, and her perpetual merriment and innate 
sense of the ridicnlons were sureties against low spirits or reflection. 
The attractions of other visitors in and about the village were 
equally conducive to the reanimating of the pleasure-loving people 
of B , and the winter gayeties were commenced afresh. Mu- 

sical entertainments, readings and dancing parties were given by 
convivial hosts who sought to keep pace with their city cousins, 
all of which were as gratifying to Myra’s troubled spirit as to the 
more merciii'ial temperament of her lively friend. There was 
a wicked exultation in the adulation and applause so lavishly 
showered upon her, which, in her calmer moments, she would 
have told herself was weak and unwomanly; but she did not care 
to think. What had she to do with the past, with its sweet, tor- 
turous recollections ! It was dead: buried beneath the heart’s tem- 
pestuous billows, and with it, all that was lofty and beautiful in 
life. Only the ghost remained to haunt her twilight reverie, and 
oft when pleasure’s cup was brimming, a low voice or a tender 
strain awoke memories which thrilled her soul with anguish. 


150 


MYRA. 


They seemed like visitants from another sphere, who had known 
her in an earlier and higher existence, and who, half in pity, half 
in derision, bewailed her sorrow. She felt as though she had been 
sporting among the clouds, where all was eternal sunshine, and 
awakening from her dream, found herself suddenly precipitated 
from the dizzy summit to the misty vales below. ’Twas tlien that 
she felt lowered in her own esteem. She was a hypocrite — a de- 
ceitful liypocrite — playing a part she did not feel. 

She drove the whisperer from iier. She must forget. For- 
get! oh that she might! And then the ring! She could not 
destroy it; it was not hers; she had no right. And the dreadful 
story! would she had never heard it! He had committed it to- 
her keeping through love for his aunt, not for her. This she re- 
membered with a pang. ‘‘Something might happen to him,” he 
had said. Was it prophetic? She had promised — she would ful- 
fill her trust. But had slie no resentment? Aye; she was no- 
lovelorn school girl to sigh and pine and droop in a cloistei’, sim- 
ply because one man was false to his word. She would not wear 
a pensive air and melancholy visage, making herself a target for 
curious eyes and a theme for idle tongues. Ho, never! she would 
mingle with the world; would live and enjo3% as other dissembling 
mortals did. She would root out the old infatuation in later 
triumphs, would 'prove herself as fickle and as hollow-hearted 
as the perfidious creature who had destroyed her faith in human 
kind. 

Ho society could have been more exacting of its votaries, and,, 
excepting the hours allotted to slumber, demanded their undivided 
time and attention. Their spirits were acronycal, rising and set- 
ting with the stars. The mornings were dozed away, the after- 
noon pastimes slightly diversified, the ride O’- walk in the earl}^ 
gloaming, then life was come again. 

The little affawe d' amour had, fortunately, never reached the 
public ear, Mr. Fairfield being looked upon merely as an acquaint- 
ance, who, like hundreds of others, found a brief sojourn at the 
Marston mansion highly agreeable. Ho suspicion of a dearer tie 
lurked in the knowing minds of the would-be guardians of their 
county’s secrets, and no change was noticeable in the haughty 
beauty, unless, perhaps, she had grown more strangely fitful 
and alike indifferent to the admiration and envy which her ap- 


A WOLF IN sheep’s CLOTHING. 


151 


pearance never failed to excite, an alteration loudly disapproved 
by her detractors and proportionally lauded by her admirers. 

Mr. McLyons still lingered in the neighborhood, and was em- 
phatically the lion of the day. He was the ruling spirit of every 
festal circle, and condescended to honor with his presence the 
routs, many of which were given exclusively for and in honor 
of him. He appeared to have bewitched the good citizens 

of S , who were easily entangled in the gorgeous snares which 

his subtle eloquence wove about them, and the country was wild 
over the peerless stranger. Susceptible young ladies, with an un- 
due fondness for admiration, were baited accordingly; and no 
sooner had they digested the dainty morsel than they became at 
once enchanted. He could count his conquests by the score, and 
sagacious mothers, who held in reverence the golden sands of 
Pactolus, were unsparing in their pains to win the regard of the 
wealthy Southerner. 

His parents, he said, were natives of the Old Dominion, and 
he had longed for years to visit tiie land of his fathers and test 
the far-famed hospitality of ‘‘the dear old State.” He had not 
intended to protract his stay, but tolerated by age and smiled 
upon by beauty, what man could do otherwise? There was an 
intoxication in her waters, which, once tasted, he found it impossi- 
ble to tear himself away. 

He was not long, in finding his way to Violet Bank, for while 
Mr. Marston did not fall such an easy victum to his arls as did 
some of his neighbors, his courtesy to strangers was proverbial,, 
and he had no reason for making an exception in the present 
instance. 

Myra treated him very much as she did other gentlemen of her 
acquaintance, enduring rather than accepting his attentions. Sho 
dared not make an open avowal of her dislike, lest others might 
suspect what she was very loth to confess to herself, that notwith- 
standing the proud nonchalance — amounting sometimes to impe- 
riousness — which she always assumed in his company, yet inwardly 
she feared him ; for reason as she would, she could not divest 
herself of the idea that she was in some way instrumental in draw- 
ing him hither, and that his advent boded no good. She felt that 
he had, by some mysterious means, discovered her secret, and 
would feel no hesitancy in its disclosure, should it in any way for- 


152 


MYRA. 


Avard his designs. That she was in his power she could not deny; 
.and that he was fully aware of his advantage, she read in the sin- 
ister smile and polite forbearance with wliich he met her cool- 
ness. If, as he asserted, his residence in their midst was only the 
gratification of a desire to visit Virginia, why should he have se- 
lected, above all other places, B , an insignificant and com- 

paratively out-of-the-way station? And the season, too! Had it 
been August instead of early spring, the allegation might have 
sounded more plausible. Ho, he came for a purpose ; of that she 
felt as morally certain as that the end was in some way to affect 
her happiness. In other words, that he held the key to her des- 
tiny, and greatly enjoyed the satisfaction which the knowledge 
afforded him. 

Henrietta had been informed, through their frequent corres- 
pondence, of the meeting with Elmer, her romantic recognition 
of the youth who had saved her life when a child, and his subse- 
quent visit; but no hint of their betrothal had ever escaped her, 
that being held too sacred for even Henrietta’s ears. 

What Lionel’s surmises might have been she could not tell; if 
he guessed that all was not right, he w'as too considerate to ques- 
tion her, but she sometimes fancied that she saw affectionate pity 
in the mild gray eyes that watched her artificial gayety. 

When they were alone, Henrietta would ratttle on for hours in 
her happy, joyous fashion, of Oscar, their hopes and prospects; 
never dreaming that “ dear Myra’s silence,” which she playfully 
upbraided, was owdng to the fact that every word was a probe to 
the wounded heart of her abstracted listener, whose tender car- 
ess was an earnest of lier sympathy, and a satisfactory assurance 
that she was not so wholly absorbed in self as not to feel an inter- 
est in the happiness of her friends. 

, Dimpling April had softened old winter’s sullen frown, and, with 
smiles and tears had coaxed from him his sceptre. Wee violets and 
daisies raised their modest heads, and glancing shyly out upon the 
great world around, shrank timidly back, nestling close under the 
shadows of their more beauteous sisters, while a thousand tiny 
minstrels made the woodlands vocal with their exultant lay. 

Henrietta had departed, and Myra was lonely and dispirited. 
The season was out of tune with her sadness. She Avas restless 
and discontented, and felt no part in the aAvakening life around 


FLORENCE. 


J53 


iier. Her countenance did not reflect the smile of. nature; her 
voice echoed not the song of the feathered chorister, and the 
daj-beairi’s dissolving ray did not penetrate the snow-banks that 
had drifted about her heai't. 

Unhappy girl ! She missed the whirl in whicli she had par- 
tially drowned thought and feeling, but much more the gleeful 
laugh of her cheery friend. A sudden resolve seized her. She 
had intended visiting Florence during the winter, but Henrietta’s 
deferred visit had necessitated its postponement to the coming au- 
tumn. She would anticipate her promise, give her old school-felllow 
a surprise, and bring her home for the summer. Her wish was law, 
and a few days later saw her en route for Lexington, accompanied 
by her father, who would not suffer her to travel that distance 
alone. 

Florence was surprised but delighted.” The season was over, 
of course; but she would, nevertheless, show the little Yirginian 
that Kentucky was not a whit behind her own proud State. 

Of her friend’s popularity she soon had abundant proof. The 
news of iier arrival was circulated among her acquaintances, and 
they were besieged with callers without number: aesthetic young 
ladies, who were adepts in the art of going into fits of ecstatic 
rapture over the most delightful commonplaces, and conversed 
with a brilliant volubility (a certain eclat, and peculiar finish of 
tone and gesture that defies description), forcing upon our poor 
heroine the mortifying realization that her education had been 
neglected, or else, her natural endowments were wofully de- 
fective. (They recognized in their idiom neither positives nor 
comparati^s, but indulged their aesthetic penchant in aesthetic 
superlatives, each supported by an aestlietic adverb, and describing 
of course — an aesthetic subject.) Dainty young gentlemen, who 
parted their hair frightfully near the middle, gave their eyes a lan- 
guid droop, lisped delightful nothings, declared that “Mith 
Marthton’s thinging was divine, and wafted them to heaven upon 
ethereal breetlies.” 

Florence held the position for which nature had adapted her. 
With a more than ordinary share of personal graces, suavity of 
manner irresistibly fascinating, and a disposition for universal 
favoritism which had characterized her at school, she was fur- 
nished with a safe passport through a world willing to be flattered; 

11 


154 


MYRA. 


but Myra feared that, in order to attain this indisputable belle- 
ship, she had an eye more to the wealth and number of her ad- 
mirers than to their moral or mental culture. The circle to which 
she belonged was one of the gayest in the city, and she appeared 
to exist but for one end — the pursuit of ease and pleasure. Ani- 
mation and amenity were donned along with her society robes, and 
worn no longer. “ Visiting hours over, she was indolent and peevish^ 
impatient with the children, and disrespectful to her mother, who 
always repaid her doubly in her own coin. 

Mr. Stillbury was an energetic, calculating business man, with 
no income except his monthly salary, wedded to the ledger over 
which he pored from morn till midnight; and with a large and 
extravagant family entirely dependent upon his daily^exertions, 
had but little time to enjoy his home, where the want of means 
was a never failing source of dissatisfaction and ill-humor. 

Myra felt uncomfortable, and often caught herself drawing: 
comparisons between domestic life here and at Fenland Hall. 

Oscar boarded in the house, and his even-temper exerted a sal- 
utary influence over her turbulent spirit. Their friendship of tho 
summer before was renewed with tenfold interest on his part,, 
since there were hundreds of queries to propound concerning the 
absent one, insigniticant to others, but of ineflable importance to 
an anxious lover. 

Among the many suitors for the hand of the youthful belle was 
one Mr. Horatio Dolittle, a widower of some fifty summers or 
thereabouts, whose smooth bald pate and green eye-glasses com- 
pleted the dignity of his imposing mien. He bored Myra for an 
entire evening with bombastic compliments and leaned disserta- 
tions upon themes of which she had never dreamt, leaving upon 
her mind the disagreeable impression that he was sounding the 
depth of her literary acquirements, clothing his ideas meanwhile 
in such august phraseology as would have confounded Hoah Web- 
ster himself. She listened in hopeless bewilderment, venturing 
now and then a timid “yes’’ and an occasional bow of assent, 
with which proofs of her attention he was perfectly content, evi- 
dently preferring the music of his own eloquence to that of any 
other. More than once she cast an appealing glance at Oscar, 
who was provokingly unobservant, and while pretending to be 
wholly engrossed with the contents of a photograph album, every 


FLORENCE. 


155 


face in which was as familiar as his own, tlie mischievous twinkle 
in the tell-tale eyes and twitch of the handsome mouth served 
greatly to increase her embarrassment. 

“Well!” he asked with profound gravity, when the guests had 
departed, “how do you like Mr. Dolittle?” 

“ I think,” she replied carelessly, her amiability having been 
fearfully tried, “that judging his actions by his words, his cogno- 
men is an unpardonable misnomer, since, were his deeds but half 
as illustrious as his speech, he would vanquish the world. A more 
appropriate title in my opinion would be either ‘ Mr. Domuch ’ or 
‘The Walking Lexicon.’” 

Oscar laughed. “Why! you don’t mean to say that you were 
not awed ! flattered ! dazzled !” 

“Pedantry, in writing is in bad taste, in conversation disgust- 
ing.” 

“So I think,” dropping his light banter for a more respectful 
tone; “but I am not certain that the world — that is, when I say 
‘the world’ I mean a majority of the human race — would not label 
you ‘an innocent’ for the assertion. What you term ‘pedantry’' 
passes with many people for wit; but in my own humble judg- 
ment, to adopt an original metaphor, ideas are like women, suscep 
tible of over-decoration. Imagine a faded, withered cheek — like 
our old friend. Miss Lydia’s, for instance — plastered over with 
rouge and ‘Lily White,’ and you have a commonplace topic ‘done 
up’ like a coronation address. Beauty of diction, as in all tilings 
else, I certainly admire; beauty, true beauty in language, as in 
dress, consists in fitness, ease and simplicity; and when at the ex- 
pense of tlie meaning they were intended to convey, words be- 
come like soap-bubbles, lost in their own inflation. Mr. Dolittle 
is a prominent political leader, and has many admirers, I assure 
you, who would follow him blindly whithersoever he directed, his 
cleverness being esteemed proportionately with the comprehension,, 
or rather lack of comprehension, of his partisans. Learned he un- 
doubtedly is, but by no means extraordinarily intelligent, and 
therein lies the error; the terms are too often confounded; for 
while some natural capacity is necessarily essential for the acquisi- 
tion of knowledge, a person of very meagre talents may, by earnest 
and persistent application, stow away a vast amount of informa- 
tion. 


156 


MYRA. 


‘‘I anticipate your reply,” as she would have interrupted him; 
“you would say that ‘they wlio are least gifted deserve most 
credit;’ true, yet the first and most important lesson of all should 
be when and where to exhibit their attainments. 

“The world likes to be humbugged, always did and always will,” 
continued this sage of twenty-one; ‘I remember having this con- 
clusion very forcibly impressed upon me when a boy by a little 
incident which, thougli foolish enough in itself, amused me greatly 
at the time. My uncle, who was a very successful pliysician, was 
a plain, unassuming man, entirely candid with his patrons, and as 
soon as he found his services unnecessary, always dismissed tlie 
patient, and never resorted to bread pills to eke out a bill. He 
was sent for upon one occasion to see a nervous, hysterical woman 
who had become alarmed at tlie little specks which had settled 
about the wound after bleeding, and had fretted herself into such 
a fever, that by the time of his arrival she was desirous of having 
the arm amputated at once. My uncle was a bit of a wag; he- 
enjoj’ed a laugh at her expense, assuring her that her fears were 
groundless, since the discolorations she noticed were caused merely 
by the late depletion, and would disappear after a sliort while; 
still, if she would feel better satisfied, she might apply a soft 
poultice. 

“This did not appease her, however; on the contrary, it angered 
her; she had made up her mind to be sick, and sick she intended 
to be. No sooner had he quitted the house, than she dispatched 
a messenger for a rival practitioner who had recently come from 
abroad, adopted new terms, new remedies, and experimented in- 
discriminately upon such subjects as fell in his way. His fame 
was being rapidly extended, especially by the undertakers, who 
were indebted to him for a large percentage of their custom, 
and she resolved to test his skill. He came in great haste, and 
scarcely had his eyes rested upon her, than raising his hands in an 
attitude of horror, with fearful distortions of his portentous visage, 
he exclaimed: ‘Why, my dear Madam! you have an ecchymosis! 
you must apply an emollient cataplasm.’ The woman was entirely 
unlettered ;^my uncle lost his practice from that day.” 

Florence whs the first to recover from the mirth evoked by the 
anecdote. With a slight shrug of the rounded shoulders and a co- 
quettish toss of the shapely head, she asked in pretended dis- 


AN UNOl’ENED LETTER. 


15T 


pleasure: “ Come, iny satirical pair! what apology have you to 
offer for your impertinent criticism of my — perhaps my — accepted 
lover?” 

Myra looked dismayed; Oscar gave himself up to unrestrained 
risibility, a contagion quickly communicated to his companion, as 
Florence repeated with studied precision his fifth and last court- 
ship, which she. declared to be a perfect facsimile, verbatim et lit- 
eratim^ of the first, second, third and fourth, a set speech through 
whicli he liad won his first wife. “The hateful old thing! she 
wondered if he did have the vanity to suppose that she cared any- 
thing for him ! But qh! how humble he did get sometimes! and 
plead with an eloquence truly divine! He even had the assurance 
to want to kiss her hand. Just think of it! to kiss her hand! the 
old goose ! she would sooner submit to the caress of a porcupine 
or hippopotamus.” 

May had stolen upon them unawares, when an incident occurred 
that tore down the frail defence which Myra had erected about 
her in the first bitter moments of her unmitigated sorrow, leaving 
pride no staff to lean on, and wounded love no weapon with which 
to do battle with the enemy waging continual warfare in the heart 
she thought to crush. On going down one morning she found 
one among her letters, whose familiar address well-nigh robbed 
her of self-control. It bore the Havana postmark ; -liad been 

taken out at B , and forwarded. Florence’s comments upon 

her agitation recalled her to herself, and laying the missive aside 
unopened, she turned to dispatch the meal which she scarcely 
tasted. 

“Florence must please excuse her; she could not go out with 
her as she had intended ; her head ached, oh! so dreadfully! she 
would go to sleep and be w’ell and fresh on her return.” 

Florence demurred: “She would remain with her.” 

“Ob, no! she must not— indeed she must not. She should feel 
very unhappy to think that she bad spoiled ber morning’s enjoy- 
ment, and rest upon such conditions would do her no good. She 
woul^ be better off alone : Please to go.” 

With a regret and an affectionate kiss, her friend tripped 
out into the street. She watched her graceful figure until lost 
to sight, and then, like one in a dream, sought refuge in their own 
boudoir, where, without fear of intrusion, she might struggle with 


158 


MYEA. 


this last and severest of all trials which she had yet been called 
upon to endure. 

For full an liour the conflict lasted, as she sat gazing through 
scalding tears at the priceless treasure which she held so tightly in 
her tremulous clasp. Oh, need I tell the writer s name ! The 
first line she had received from his dear hand since that memor- 
able night upon which slie had been made an unwilling listener to 
the story of his disloyalty. 

In the first moment of glad surprise her lieart had given a wild, 
exultant bound, bursting the icy barriers that sealed its foun- 
tain ; but ere the warm spray had scarcely started, ’twas con- 
gealed in the source from whence it sprung. 

‘‘He had wavered, but loved l\er still;” and with the thought 
came a pang of mingled mortification and resentment. “ She was 
no idle toy, to be picked up and cast aside whenever some more 
radiant star dawned upon the horizon of his capricious fancy. And 
besides — even though she were willing so to humble herself, to for- 
give him all — she could not call him back wdien, by so doing, she 
would break another heart, perhaps more sensitive than her own.” 

Reason refuted this first supposition. “No, no; he was, ere 
this, the husband of another, and wrote to ask forgiveness and 
tell her of his happiness. It was cruel, heartless ; and she was so 
weak! oh, so weak and unwomanly!” It was with superhuman 
resolution that she restrained the nervous fingers which threat- 
ened, ever and anon, to tear the seal and know the worst. “She 
would not. He should not so triumph over her. But if aught 
under heaven could make her forget pride, indignation and self- 
esteem, it would be that face and that voice, which had expanded 
her young heart in the sunlight of love — only to nip the tender 
blossom in the cold, biting frosts of disappointment. 

“She must be firm. She must tear the loved image from her 
memory. They were parted, and parted for ever. Fate, like a 
darkling river, rolled between. She must forget, for he was lost 
to her for ever. She would never see him more; never! never!” 
and the deeps of her soul rung with the echo, “Never! never!” 

The flood-gates were opened, and she wept ! Wept because she 
felt that her words were vain, and that she loved him no less now, 
than when, upon that scented eve, she had plighted him her troth 
and* promised to trust him — ay, even unto death! 


AN UNOPENED LETTER. 


159 


‘‘Oh, Elmer!” she moaned, “why would you mock me thus!” 
Why would you add another weight to the load of grief already 
mine ! I could have forgiven all but this !” 

Her sun had set; the night was upon her, but no pitying stars 
peeped forth to shed their timid lustre through the gloom into 
which her soul had sunk. There was no relief but in that refresh- 
ing fount, from which welled tears akin to the drops which sum- 
mer dews shed over the death of some blighted flower. 

She was calmer when she rose. Her resolve was formed and 
could not be too quickly executed. Florence was out shopping, after 
which she was to pay a round of calls and would not be back in 
several hours. Taking a last look at the unopened letter which 
had occasioned her so much suflering, she sealed it in another en- 
velope, directed it and placed it in her pocket, thankful that she 
had been able to resist the impulse which had come so near mas- 
tering her. Then she bathed her face, smoothed her tumbled 
tresses, donned her hat, slipped out through the front passage and 
gained the street unobserved. The post-ofiice was only a few 
blocks otf. She re-entered the house by the same door. The 
children were at school, Mrs. Stillbury busy in her sewing-room, 
and no one was wiser for her brief absence. 

What suspicions may have been forced upon Florence by her 
singular conduct of the morning were wholly dispelled, when, upon 
her return, she found her quietly reading, to all outward appear- 
ances, the same Myra of former days. 

Oscar was late for tea, and unusually quiet throughout the even- 
ing. Myra thought that he looked troubled, unhappy. This, 
however, she should have attributed to the unsettled state of her 
own mind, had not Florence rated him playfully upon his want of 
appreciation of their charms, with an arch reminder that he was 
not making himself agreeable. 

The reception of Elmer’s letter had rendered her present life 
not only distasteful, but unbearable. Hovelty’s sparkling cordial 
had thrown off its effervescence, leaving only the insipid lees. 
She wished to return home. Florence preferred visiting her in 
July or August, so she wrote at once to her father to come for her. 
A week went by, during which Oscar’s mental disorder was each 
day more noticeable. She longed to know the cause of his per- 
turbation, but feared he might think her presumptuous and in- 
quisitive. 


160 


MYEA. 


It was her last night .in Lexington, and many of the acquaint- 
ances formed during her stay had called to bid her good-bye^ 
He waited impatiently until they had made their final adieux, and 
then laughingly asked if she could not spare him a few moments 
before retiring, as he wished to see her particularly. 

Her reply being in the affirmative, Florence took the hint good- 
naturedly, and, with a merry jest, left the parlors for what she 
termed “the mysterious interview.” 

Never had she seen him look half so wretched, as when, throw- 
ing liimself doggedly upon an ottoman at her feet, he confessed 
all. “ Two weeks before he had received from Henrietta an angry,, 
reproachful note, with which she returned his letters, giving, as a 
reason for his dismissal, his engagement to Florence. She had 
not condescended to enter into particulars, but he inferred that 
she had obtained her information through Miss Lydia Philips, who 
had been spending the winter in Lexington, and who had always 
despised him (having a natural antipathy for youth), and had not 
entertained for Henrietta the kindliest feelings in the world, espe- 
cially since Jerome’s attentions to her (Myra), which she ascribed 
no doubt to some scheme of the former’s to lure him from her 
‘dear little sister’ (Miss Janet), for whom he had, in reality, never 
professed the slightest partiality. He had not thought that Hen- 
rietta could be so weak as to allow herself to be influenced by the 
idle gossip of a notorious mischiefrnaker, and the misunderstand- 
ing might never have occurred, had he not, in one of his letters,, 
mentioned in a teasing way Florence’s unrivaled belleship, with 
the remark, that were he unfettered and fancy free, he too might 
be in danger of falling a victim to her charms. He had only 
meant to joke her, never dreaming for an instant that she could 
possibly fancy him in earnest. He had been shocked and wounded 
when at last he comprehended her very incoherent note, and had 
written at once explaining all : he had never received a line in 
reply, and was almost crazed with anxiety. How such a rumor 
could ever have originated, he could not think for the life of him; 
certainly through no word or act of his, and he was sure Miss 
Florence would feel anything but flattered. They were neces- 
sarily thrown much together; he admired and liked her, but ho 
had never loved but one woman, and were a world of beauties- 
submitted to his choice, she were fairer in his eyes than all others^ 


OSCAR IN TROUBLE. 


161 


of whatever nation or clime. He had hoped that Henrietta had 
known him long and well enough to be above that weakness, jeal- 
ousy, which had broken so many hearts.” 

Myra winced at the home-thrust; she had been an attentive and 
sympathetic listener: ‘‘The same old story! Was there no hap- 
piness in human love! had confidence no abiding place!” 

“The old vixen!” he muttered, again adverting to Miss Lydia.. 

Such words were strangers to his lips, and their very utterance 
convinced her that he had been tried beyond endurance. 

“ Hush !” she said reprovingly; “what naughty words you are 
saying !” 

“Yirago, then! Were she a man, I would know how to deal 
with her, but being a woman .” 

“What will you do?’^ with a sad smile. 

A sudden gleam of his fine eyes illumined the frank, ex- 
pressive countenance upturned to hers, when, as though some com- 
forting idea had flashed upon him, he exclaimed excitedly: “Foil 
her with her own weapon — words !” 

“May I help you?” 

“My dear friend! how can 1 thank you !” clasping her hand im-- 
pulsively. 

“Then listen. Henrietta loves you, Mr. Maurice; of this I am 
well assured.” 

“You think so?” brightening. 

“I know it; and I do not intend that two of my best friends^ 
whose mutual happiness I know to be so seriously concerned, shall 
fall out about a mere trifle, and make themselves miserable for 
life; tliat is, if any effort on my part can repair the breach. Slie 
naturally feels piqued, and cannot bring her independent spirit to 
the humiliation of asking forgiveness ; on these grounds I account 
for her silence. She will be more reasonable by and by ; and 
since she will not listen to you, perhaps she may treat me less- 
unkindly. I shall write to her immediatel}^ upon my arrival at 
Violet Bank, and do all in my power to bring about a reconcilia- 
tion. Can 3mu trust the affair in my liands?” 

“Indeed I can!” was the hearty rejoinder; “Iliad intended 
asking as much, but you have anticipated my wish. Your words 
inspire me with new hopes; I have longed for some da^^s past to 
unburden my heart to some one, and you have no idea how much. 


162 


MYKA. 


better I feel already. Foil seem to understand my feelings so 
perfectly, and administer remedies so skillfully, that were I not 
•confidently advised to the contrary, I should say that you yourself 
had once been in a similar category.” 

Another home-thrust. 

‘‘This ‘weakness,’ as you term it, you think unworth}^ of her; 
perhaps it is; at the same time I would admonish you to be very 
tender in your reprehension. A woman may be won, but never 
driven; and it were easier to melt an iceberg with hailstones than 
a woman’s pride .with angry words when once she imagines her- 
self slighted.” 

“You shall find me humility personified. I shall write again, 
and if that brings no more satisfactory result than the last, I shall 
leave this hateful place, go straight to her house and compel her 
to hear me. I wfish now I had never left her; it was for her sake 
that I did, because I fain would save her from poverty, and could 
better ray finances by coming. The sordid dust! what do I care 
for it without her ! I would not give ray sweetheart for the wealth 
of the universe, and this diamond eyed monster. Mammon, has 
been a clog to more than one man’s happiness.” 

His excitement gradually subsided under her cheering words, 
and the hopeful smile with which he accompanied the pleasant 
“good-night” attested the success of her attempt at consolation. 

Without the door knelt a slight, girlish figure, one ear pressed 
close to the key-hole, her face livid with rage and her small hands 
clenched with suppressed passion. She arose as the conference 
-ended, and glided back to her chamber as stealthily as she had 
left it. “Ah! my warm-hearted little friend! you shall rue the 
day you came between me and the man I love. To be thwarted ! 
duped! by her! I might have won him but for this officious inter- 
ference! I will have my revenge! I will have my revenge!” she 
hissed, as the door closed behind her. 

Great was Myra’s surprise when, upon her return, she found 

McLyons still in B . This circumstance alone was sufficient 

to redouble her apprehensions, notwithstanding his avowed plea, 
that he had become so attached to the place and people, that he 
preferred spending the summer in his present locality to recreating 
at the springs, as he had done for ten years past; but when taken 


RODOLPHUS WOOING. 


163 


in connection witli the abrupt suspension of Elmer’s letters, tlie 
fact of his havdng volunteered the information concerning his in- 
tended marriage, the former’s undisguised dislike and the for- 
warded billet — of the contents of which she was totally igno- 
rant — it tilled her mind with wild suspicions and indefinite hopes 
whicli she dare not foster. Being widely known and universally 
popular, she felt sure that the papers of his native city would 
mention an event of such general interest; she had watched them 
'eagerly, devouring every paragraph in the list of Hymeneals, but 
the name she sought was not there. 

‘‘Wliatif there existed between these two some family feud, 
and this McLyons was laboring to effect some secret vengeance! 
What if the announcement was a forgery, an ingenious fabrica- 
tion to excite her jealousy, insuring thereby the dissolution of 
their engagement!” A thousand possibilities presented them- 
selves, aggravating rather than allaying her disquietude. 

“What if Elmer had been ill, nearly dead perhaps! and ske 
had never written liim a line! Suppose he had grown impatient, 
and written upon his recovery to ask an explanation of her silence! 
and she had returned his letter unopened, without a word! Was 
he true? Did he love her still ? How could she ever ask his for- 
giveness! he would never allow her an opportunity. Would he 
come back? no; he was proud and sensitive ; he would never sub- 
ject himself to a second slight at the hands of one whom he must 
believe false! lieartless! unworthy of his love and trust!” The 
thought was agonizing. 

It was during one of tliese spells of mental raorbosity that an 
unlooked for diversion caused her to forget, for the time, her dis- 
tressing perplexity, and furnished a week’s merriment for the entire 
-domestic staff*. 

Mr. Henry’s friendliness had known no abatement, and Mr. 
Hodolphus’ attentions had been equally unremitting. After con- 
ning the matter well, the latter had very prudently concluded that 
the contemplated proposal must be delayed no longer. She was 
apprised of this, when, upon entering the drawing-room one 
evening, she found him sole occupant, with sundry additions 
to his elaborate toilet, and not a slight overplus of jewels and 
perfumery. 

From his obvious embarrassment, she soon discovered that he 


164 : 


MYRA. 


was pondering a question of unusual moment, his hands and feet 
being painfully intractable, as he fidgeted uneasily in his chair, 
sighed heavily and gazed in speechless agony at the statue-like 
figure before him. In vain he strove, by every ruse which his 
clumsy ingenuity could devise, to broach the awful theme, his ad- 
vances being met with an unblushing coolness that would have 
daunted a less confident suitor. Her haughty indifference puzzled 
and irritated him, and at the end of an hour, Mr. Sims had become- 
desperate. 

He rose, crossed the room, gulped down two goblets of ice- 
water, came back and reseated himself. Then he crossed his legs, 
adjusted his cravat, stroked his mustache and twirled his chain^ 

With three successive ahems! as a proem to the forth-coming^ 
declaration, he began, in great agitation: “You — ah! — ahem!' 
Realljq Miss Marston — you — ah I — that is — you can’t be ignorant 
as to my-^intentions.” 

Myra’s color had been rising slowly, half in anger, half in 
amusement. An ominous silence followed, which Mr. Sims was- 
at a loss to interpret. 

“ You — ah 1 — ahem ! — that is — ah ! — really — ” Here he became- 
frightened at his own voice, and came to an abrupt pause. 

His breath came thick and short; perspiration stood out in 
large beads upon the ruddy brow, and his eyes looked wistfully 
liquid, as, drawing from his pocket the famous bandana, he 
mopped his forehead vigorously. 

The clinking of glasses warned them of the presence of a third- 
party. Myra knew, without looking around, that the intruder 
was Aunt Jemima with a waiter of refreshments. Mr. Sims’ per- 
ception was not so correct, however. Thankful for the avenue of 
escape so unexpectedly opened to him, he rose in great haste,, 
seized the hand of the venerable domestic, and shaking it hear- 
tily, exclaimed, with unfeigned cordially, “How do you do, Mrs.. 
Marston? I am glad to see you!” 

The astonished Ethiopian'stared at him in open-eyed amazement.. 

It was rude, ill-bred and unfeeling. She could not help it; she 
was, for the time being, insensible alike to either. Myra leaned 
her head upon the stand at her side and fairly screamed with 
laughter. 

This last unpardonable indignity recalled him to himself. Over- 


twilight’s witching hour. 


165 


whelmed with confusion, as he realized his ludicrous blunder, he 
rushed from tlie apartment, upsetting three chairs in his un- 
ceremonious exit, snatclied Ins hat from the rack, and with a 
smothered oath, fled from the house in a frenzy of rage. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

TWILIGHT’S WITCHING HOUR. 

S OL had closed his golden eye, and lain him down to rest : 

’Tvvas twilight’s witching hour : 

The hour when maidens, young and shy. 

Are wont to steal from home, hard by, 

And seek’some sheltered nook or dell, 

To revel in its magic spell. 

’Twas twilight’s witching hour. 

The day in gorgeous splendor dies, 

As on her riibyscouch she lies. 

And swift her soul its flight will wing, 

When night her sable pall shall bring. 

’Twas twilight’s witching hour. 

The mocking-bird no more did stay 
To carol soft its roundelay. 

But to its callow young had flown, 

To shelter them from wind or storm. 

’Twas twilight’s witching hour : ’ • 

The lilies all had said “good-night,” 

Their faces fair had hid from sight. 

And said : “ We’ll meet again at light, 

When Aurora tips the Eastern height.” 

’Twas'twilight’s witching hour. 

The jasmine fair, the scented rose. 

Had gently sunk to sweet repose. 

In sportive glee the leaflets played. 

While zephyrs sighed beneath their shade. 

’Twas twilight’s witching hour. 

The evening dew did pensive weep. 

And in her tears the flowers did steep. 

Till fragrance soft upon the breeze 
Was wafted o’er the wooded leas. 

’Twas twilight’s witching hour: 

The evening waned, till by-and-by 


166 


MYKA. 


Nox arose from throne on high, 

And in her sombre garb revealed 
A crescent moon upon her' shield. 

The owl in yonder rifted oak, 

Welcomed the hour with dismal croak. 

Fair Luna smiled and brightly glimmered, 

The wee stars blushed and shyly shimmered. 

Beneath a willow’s leafy boughs 
A maiden fair had sought repose; 

And chestnut curls anon did rest 
’Pon hand as fair as ocean crest. 

Myra was lost in reverie. She had wandered to this secluded 
bower, now more than ever dear, since in its calm, sweet solitude,, 
she might mourn the death of young love’s first promise, to con- 
ceal which had become her daily study. Tiie scene, the hour and 
the soft stillness soothed her troubled spirit, artd oft, when dew- 
drops bathed the infant blossoms, sighs from her lacerated bosom 
arose, like incense, to the skies. Unconscious of the beauty 
around her, her thouglits were far away, for through memory’s 
vista gleamed one form, one star, wliose rising and setting had be- 
gun and ended that brief, briglit and higher phase of earthly 
blessedness. 

She took up the guitar, which lay neglected beside her. A 
light prelude fioated out upon the night, whose every vibration 
seemed a whisper of him. She laid it aside, impatiently, lest she 
might give involuntary utterance to her long-suppressed emotions, 
for 

Every cadence, every strain. 

Each ended but in Elmer’s name. 

The words arose to her lips unbidden, as tlie harrowing recol- 
lections wliich inspired them : 

“Ah! Elmer, I have loved you well; 

Ay, loved you more than words can tell ; 

You little knew, you little guessed. 

The love, the joy, that thrilled my breast ! 

To hear once more those words of love, 

Like angels’ whispers from above. 

The past I’d fling to Lethe’s tide. 

With all its cruel doubts and pain; 

Could humble e’en my haughty pride. 

To bring my lover back again — 


A RECONCILIATION. 


ler 


For, false or true — I love you yet ; 

I love you, and can ne’er forget !” 

The zephyrs caught the soft refrain 
And echoed back the words again : 

“ For, false or true — I love you yet ; 

I love you, and can ne’er forget!” 

A light foot-fall arrested her attention. She started; she 
turned; she screamed. A tall manly figure stood behind her — a 
mere ghost of his former self — pale and haggard in the silvery 
moonbeams: ’Tvvas Elmer! 


CHAPTEE XYIII. 

A KECONCILIATION. 

M YEA would have been at a loss to define her emotions, as 
she listened, with timid eagerness, to 

Elmer’s Story. 

His voice acted like an enchanted strain, exorcising the cruel 
doubts that had haunted her fevered brain, leaving in their stead 
a tremulous joy, a feeling too vague, and yet too deep for utter- 
ance. * 

She did not ask if he had been ill: the pale face, which had 
startled her in the starlight, was the picture of health and youth- 
ful bloom when compared with the wan, sunken cheeks upon 
which she now gazed, as he stood beneath the flood of light which 
the glittering chandelier threw over the apartment. A strange 
lustre crept into the midnight orbs as they returned the searching 
gaze ; and as tlieir heavy fringes swept the white cheek, their black 
looked blacker, and his entire aspect was so singularly cadaverous 
as to cause her to question whether it was not, after all, an hal- 
lucination, or whether she was, in reality, conversing with her 
lover or his spirit. 

‘‘You have been ill she said brokenly, wlien at length she 
could command her voice, “and I have been so — so unjust!” 

“ Yes, I have been ill — very near death’s door,” he replied, in his 
low, earnest tones, “ but I have traveled the road so often that it 


168 


MYRA. 


has grown quite familiar, and has ceased to appall. Bodily pain is 
R sore affliction, but when compared with mental anguish, it sinks 
into insignificance and contempt. God only knows what I have 
Buffered! Myra! oh Myra! how could you have so wronged me?'’ 

She made no effort at defense, but tears fell thick and fast 
beneath his reproachful glance. 

“ There, I have pained you !” he cried, regretfully ; “ I was harsh, 
unkind ; forgive my hasty speech. You did not know — how could 
you ! that, stricken down by sickness, I tossed in feverish delirium 
and raved of Myra. You did not know how, when the great 
-crisis was past and my thoughts were turned once more to life, I 
watched the mail with hungry eyes, and threw it from me impa- 
tiently, in bitter disappointment, when that for which I looked, 
that for which I pined, that for which I hoped, was not there. 
You did not know how, when my body was being nourished with 
the choicest dainties which friendship and affection could provide, 
my poor heart was starving for a line, a word, of sympathy and 
remembrance from the being most dear to me on earth. What to 
think I knew not. I was more than wretched, and doubly so, that, 
in my then feeble state, I could do nothing but wait, 

“It was during this period of anxiety and suspense, that in at- 
tempting to while away the tedious hours in the perusal of some 
old periodicals, 1 chanced to read in one of our home journals of 
my intended marriage. Words are inadequate to express my sur- 
prise and apprehension as 1 read it again and again to be sure that 
my eyes were not playing me false. My first thoughts were of 
you, and the next for the solution of the mystery. No one else 
was in the room, and before my mother re-entered, I had arrived 
at an explanation, which, having found a clew, was tlie simplest 
and most natural imaginable. I questioned her in regard to the 
erroneous announcement; she declared herself profoundly igno- 
rant of the whole affair, but readily agreed with me as to the 
manner in which the mistake had probably occurred. So deep 
and all-absorbing had been her solicitude for her ‘dear boy’s re- 
covery,’ that she liad not given a thought or a care to aught else, 
and was, in consequence, but little better posted than myself in 
reference to what had transpired during my illness. That day 
was destined to be one of surprises, and to add to my discomfort, 
I heard accidentally, in the course of the evening, that McLyons 


A RECONCILIATION. 


169 


was in Virginia. The exact locality which he had deemed fit to 
honor with his presence was unknown, and that fact, alone, con- 
firmed my fears and suspicions, and made me infinitely more 
miserable than before. The circumstance was mentioned casually, 
among other items of interest, by a couple of lively asso(!iates, who, 
impelled by a desire to beguile me of my melancholy, alluded in 
a laughing way to my deferred nuptials, making the incident a 
subject of playful jest, that while I languished upon a bed of sick- 
ness, I had been supplanted by another who had stolen my ex- 
pectant bride. What they meant as a joke was anything else to me 
however, and though their honest endeavor to provoke a smile 
failed signally, I was not long in admitting that tlieir visit, if 
not efficacious, was highly beneficial. 

“I spent a sleepless night, my strength returning with my in- 
creasing doubts and kindling indignation. To the astonishment 
of my nurses and medical attendants, I declared, on the morrow, 
my determination to sit up. They disapproved and expostulated, 
but I carried my point. I asked for writing materials, and re- 
quested to be left alone. I expected foul play, so wrote a full 
explanation of the rumor which I was sure had reached your ears, 
telling you of my illness and begging a word in return to cheer 
and console. 

“Again I watclied and waited. After long, weary weeks the 
wished-for billet at length arrived ; I tore the seal in an ecstas}^ of 
joy, to behold what? my own letter, unopened, without apology or 
reproof! I could not credit what I saw; I could not believe that 
the love, wliich a few months before had made me blest, could so 
soon have changed to indifference or contempt. I could have 
borne anything better than this; angry vituperations you might 
have heaped upon me! anything but silence and disdain! I felt 
wounded and humiliated, but I did not give way to passion and 
say unkind things of you, for I never questioned your fidelity — 
no, not for an instant; I had more faith in you than you had in 
me. You doubtless believed me the falsest and most despicable 
of men, and I could not know to what extent your mind had been 
poisoned against me. I could not blame you, for appearances were 
sadly against me, and our acquaintance was so brief and limited: 
but I could not, and would not give you up without a struggle. I 
left home as soon as circumstances would permit, resolving to 
12 


170 


MYKA. 


travel until I found you, and if proof was needed, let my waste 
figure vouch for the truth of my words. I heard you under the 
willow, and could not withstand the temptation of stealing upon 
you. I witnessed your emotion, and listened to your impassioned 
improvisation; it was mean, unfair; but you are not angry, 
Myra?” 

He paused, as though he expected a reply. Shame and con- 
trition had chained her tongue ; she could not trust herself to speak, 
but she looked at him beseechingly, as though she would recom- 
mend herself to his clemency, and entreat him, at least, to spare 
her the mortifying rehearsal of her own folJies. 

He seemed to understand the mute appeal, for he adverted no 
more to the unfortunate recitative, but in tones of mingled pride 
and tenderness, resumed : “ Having proved my love, let me vin- 
dicate my honor. Listen! I was not always what I am now, 
Myra, a portionless heir. My father w’as accounted a wealthy 
man, with but two children, Juliet, my beautiful sister, and my- 
self. Ten years ago he removed to Havana, where he died after 
a seven years’ residence. The exact condition of his finances was 
unknown to us at the time. We knew that he had suffered severe 
losses from a fall in railroad stock, in which he had speculated 
largely, and that the line of steamers in which he was a copartner 
had been greatly damaged by storms and fires; but we did not al- 
low the fact to disturb us, deeming his other propert}^ more than 
sufficient for our needs. Twelve months after his decease, upon 
settling up the estate, it was found that he had left his family — 
well, not exactly penniless — but with what seemed a mere pit- 
tance to those who had been reared in wealth and luxury. Poor 
Juliet! The blow was felt most by lier, and from that day she 
was a changed being. She was a lovely girl, and though five years 
my junior, we had been confidants from childhood, scarcely enjoy- 
ing a thought which was not communicated to the other. She was 
brilliant and accomplished, but in one great essential she was wo- 
fully deficient, — slie lacked the courage and moral fortitude to 
grapple with adversity and prove herself equal to the reverses of 
life. In looking back, my former existence seemed like a long, 
unbroken dream; but brought face to face with poverty, I awoke 
my dormant energies, cast behind me my poetry and my art, and 
set to work to retrieve my fallen fortunes. Hot so with my fair 


A EECONCILIATION. 


171 


sister. She could not gain her consent to give up the gay, glitter- 
ing world in which she had shone so long. She brooded contin- 
ually over her imaginary wants and privations, making herself 
•quite miserable because she could not emulate her quondam asso- 
ciates. It grieved me immeasurably to see her so weak — cowardly, 
I called it — and much more our dear mother. Up to that time 
she had been betrothed to a young barrister, Hugh Cavendish by 
name, and a noble fellow he was, with everything to recommend 
him to a woman’s favor — with one lamentable exception : he was 
poor! Poor, proud and ambitious, striving manfully for the 
laurel wreath which must ultimately crown his ardor and genius. 
Tlieir inequality of fortune had long been a source of unhappiness 
to his haughty soul, and he would not permit her to assume his 
name until he had won both honor and fame. She discarded the 
man she loved, upon the alleged plea, that she was unfit to cope 
with poverty : ‘ She was, so far as usefulness was concerned, as 
helpless as an infant. She would be only a burden to Iierself and 
him. She could never wed a poor man.’ 

‘‘I rebuked her angrily. She only wept. ‘Brother,’ she said, 
^you are cruel and unjust. It is for his sake, more than for my own. 
I would be nothing but a trouble and incumbrance. I can never 
be a poor man’s wife.’ 

“ She spent the following winter with friends in the city of 
her birth, where she met this millionaire, McLyons. I was in- 
formed of their engagement when he accompanied her home, the 
ensuing spring. Why it was, I could not tell; I could not then, 
and cannot now, give any plausible reason for my dislike; but it 
was instinctiv’^e and inveterate. He knew his eSemy, and returned 
my hatred with every honest throb of his deceitful heart. 

“I remonstrated and pleaded with her. She had steeled herself 
for the ordeal, and turned a deaf ear to my entreaties. ‘ Her mind 
was made up,’ she said, ‘and nothing could change her.’ 

“When I found her inexorable, I tolerated him for her sake, 
because I would not, by open hostility, add a feather’s weight to 
the unhappiness in store for her; and though I have felt my 
smouldering wrath boil within me under his patronizing inso- 
lence, my affection for her has ever been a check to an impetuous 
.outburst. Summer and autumn sped by, during which he visited 
Jier at intervals, and, after several postponements of the marriage. 


172 


MYKA. 


the lover became impatient. As time went on, I was not slow to- 
discern that Juliet, despite her obstinate pride, evinced a decided 
reluctance to redeem her pledge. This I welcomed as a happy 
omen. I fell on my knees and implored her, as never man prayed 
for woman’s love, for the sake of all that she held dear in heaven 
and earth, to consider well before she took the irrevocable step, to- 
be true to herself. Her better nature triumphed at last, and the 
day before I left, I had the satisfaction of placing her hand in that 
of the man who adores her, and into whose care I cheerfully gave 
the sister I idolized. 

“Upon being finally rejected, McLyons very justly credited me 
with his dismissal, which circumstance was well calculated to in- 
crease the malevolence with which he had ever regarded me. He 
loved her after a fashion ; he was proud of her beauty and ac- 
complishments, and it \yould have been gratifying to his vanity to 
exhibit her to the world as his wife. He accepted his fate like 
the fawning hypocrite he is, but with a mental reservation, no- 
doubt that he would reward me for my pains. 

“Those bent upon revenge are seldom left long without means. 
He had heard, through Juliet, of our engagement. I fell ill be- 
fore he left Havana, and with the conviction that^I would never 
recover, he sought you out, to shatter your trust with gilded false- 
hoods, and embitter my last moments with the belief that you had 
forgotten, or else had never cared for me. Chance forwarded his 
designs; there is another family of Fairtields residing on the same 
street, and only a few blocks from our home; they are distant 
relatives of ours, and the young gentleman in question is Mr. 
Elber Fairfield,, wlio married Miss Palmer a few months since. 
Our names, being so nearly the same, are frequently confounded, 
and the type-setter, through haste or carelessness, substituted mine 
for his. Armed with this, success was sure; so our wily friend 
at once set out, eager for the consummation of his malignant 
scheme. So it was that our mutual happiness hung upon the 
import, not of a word, but of a letter. The lesson has been a 
painful, but I trust a salutaiy one. It teaches us that our only 
happiness lies in that implicit confidence which can enable us to 
trust each other wholly and truly, under any and all circum- 
stances in defiance of tattlers and appearances. It admon- 


A KEOONCILIATION. 


173 


islies us, in future, to be less hasty, for could you have known all, 
y^^^i would have been less unkind.” 

Such w'as the explanation, terse and perspicuous, when, in an- 
•swer to his questions, she had, with characteristic truthfulness, 
<3etailed every stage of doubt, hope, fear and heartache — begin- 
ning with the military ball and ending with the moment that he 
had discovered her in her al fresco retreat. 

The human heart is of that exquisite fibre, by nature wrought 
of delicacy and truth. Until hardened by vice, it is pure and guile- 
less. So it is that an idle word or an angry look so often rends 
the tender chords, which, though patched and mended, never quite 
regain their original tone. The wound may be cicatrized, but 
the scar remains. 

“ Have I not suffered too ?” she asked when he had finished. 
•‘‘Let this atone for ray error.” 

“Upon one condition — that you will never doubt me again.” 

Myra looked thoughtful. “ Elmer,” she said (her voice was low 
and earnest), “when I see with my own eyes, and hear from your 
own lips that you love another, then, and then only, will my trust 
be shaken. I solemnly declare it.” She spoke slowly, proudly, 
as though she felt assured that the possibility to whicli she alluded 
was in reality an impossibility, little dreaming of the dumb an- 
guish with which she was one day doomed to recall her words. 

His reply was not less confident: “I ask no more. When you 
hear from my own lips that I love another, send me from you 
banish me forever: I will cease to tbrment you.” 

Thrice happy they, who, restored to mutual confidence, can 
better appreciate their present gladness for the ordeal through 
which they have so lately passed. 

As weeks went by, it appeared that McLyons was not the only 

stranger who found some mysterious attraction about B . 

There was another who seemed likely to spend the summer with 
the jovial host of a rival inn, whose after-dinner conversation was 
a somewhat exaggerated catalogue of his accommodations for in- 
valids, chalybeate waters, etc., etc. “A healthy locality, sir, re- 
markably healthy, distressingly healthy, so the doctors say,” which 
'emphatic finale was invariably followed by cachinnations evincive 
of extreme amusement, in which the speaker was usually the»sole 
participant. 


174 


MYRA. 


His guest conceded all that he claimed, for it: “B was, in- 

deed, a most pleasant resort.” 

‘‘Mr. Fairfield was a poet and an artist, and as a natural conse- 
quence, eccentric.” Such was the verdict of the village denizens 
before he had been long in their midst. “ It was not surprising 
that he delighted in strolling about the woods, sketching, angling, 
keeping irregular hours, and in fact, being altogether different 
from ordinary individuals.” 

Ah! my astute worthies, how your sagacity would have fallen 
in your own esteem could you have accompanied the dilettante in 
his forest rambles! Angling in a drawing-room! sketching from 
a painted landscape! ravished by the warblings of a native sing- 
ing bird ! And Cupid, in his rosy fetters, hid a pair of laughing 
eyes beneath the veil of mystery which he drew more closely 
around him. 

That he eschewed society was evident, for which singularity he 
declined giving a reason. This much-disputed question was finally 
established when numerous invitations were met by the same 
polite “regret;” after which, the emulous fair gave him up as a 
sickly dreamer, unworthy a passing thought, since he admired 
nature more than their own transcendent beauty, though “hand- 
some, romantic and interesting” they all universally agreed. 
One circumstance bafiled them — his visits to Violet Bank. The 
Marstons were former acquaintances, true; but he was not a so- 
ciety man, that was proved. Perhaps it was not his health alone 
that detained him; perhaps it was only an excuse. Was he en- 
amored of the daughter? (Many of their meetings, as we are 
aware, were unknown to them ; but two such important personages 
could scarcely hope to be lost sight of, and they had been seen 
occasionally together, driving or walking.) Jealousy hooted: 
“Ho.” Beason whispered: “'Yes.” “Perhaps his calls were of 
a business nature,” suggested Envy; “Mr. Marston was engaged 
in so many enterprises, and had agents in so many places.” The 
unfashionable hours at which he sought his residence seemed to 
give color to the latter hypothesis, which, being the more pleasing 
of the two, was generally accepted. As the leading topic on 
the list of oui dire^ it was discussed con amove by Mrs. Fudge and 
her satellites, who, when they separated, were no wiser than be- 
fore. And so the gossips speculated and opined, blissfully uncon- 


A RECONCILIATION. 175 

scions of the little drama which was being enacted under their 
very noses. 

The actors kept their own counsel, enjoying to the full the 
mystification they effected ; and Madam Kuraor, having her at- 
tention drawn to objects of more recent interest, forgot, for a 
brief while, the trusting pair, to whom the season was one of in- 
comparable felicity, finding, in their reconciliation, a more quiet 
happiness than the uncertain transport of budding love. Their 
hearts expanded like the blossoms about their pathway, swelled no 
less by the breath of heaven than the azure concave that smiled 
above them. A portion of each day was devoted exclusively to 
each other’s society ; sometimes a morning in the drawing-room, 
but more frequently a twilight promenade or row upon the little 
river, where together they might watch the sunset glories, as expir- 
ing day reclined majestic and serene upon his flaming pyre, and his 
spirit lingered long in the Western horizon, as though loth to quit 
a sky so bright. For the recovery of the invalid you had only to 
note the olive tinge, which was fast returning to the emaciated 
cheek, as he rested lazily upon his oars, giving ever and anon an 
enthusiastic outburst at the Iris-tinted beauties which Flora had 
strewn with lavish hand along the brink. Fond, imaginative 
youth ! their spirits lifted above our little sphere by the spell of 
Nature’s poesy, while the soul-ennobling hours, too delectable to 
last, stole noiselessly by on fancy’s airy pinions. 

Elmer’s just indignation came near getting the better of his 
discretion, when he found his suspicions verified in regard to his 
unprincipled maligner’s underhanded misrepresentations. He de- 
clared his determination of calling him to account for his dishon- 
orable conduct, and it was only by dint of long and earnest per- 
suasion that Myra succeeded in changing his rash intentions. “It 
could do no good;” she said, “besides subjecting her to unpleasant 
remarks ; to the engenderer of the mischief, it would be just the 
triumph he had studied and plotted for. It would mortify him 
much more to believe that all efforts had proved unsuccessful, and 
that their peace had never been disturbed for a moment by the 
shadow of a doubt. Seek a nobler revenge : let him alone. He was 
beneath his notice. Treat him wdth the contempt he deserved. He 
could never come between them again. Let him enjoy the know- 


176 


MYRA. 


ledge of liis foiled stratagems, resting assured that he would be, in 
due time, rewarded. Since Providence had given them so bright 
a present, it would be ungrateful to mar it, by word or deed; and 
another point for consideration — the step he contemplated would 
be an admission to the world of their attachment, which, for her 
sake, he would not divulge.” 

McLyons, meanwhile, undaunted and courteous ever, was a 
frequent visitor, calling usually in company with friends of the 
family, to insure a more cordial reception; upon which occasions, 
should any chance allusion be made to Fairfield, nq hint betrayed 
cognizance of their intimacy. 

Elmer inveighed against this social recognition of a man whom 
she herself declared was beneath the notice of a gentleman, 

“There! how quarrelsome he was! What could she do? If 
he could not, or would not see that she loathed him, she would not 
stoop to the alternative of actual rudeness. Only think of the 
consequences. Whatever might be the estimation in which he was 
held by them, facts were, nevertheless, the same. He was a lion in 
society, and a direct and open slight, prompted by private preju- 
dice, would have little weight with a world that honored and 
courted him. His influence was much greater than theirs, nor was 
he unmindful of his advantage. If he was unprincipled, so much 
greater the reason for not exciting his ill-wfill, since he had it in 
his power to retaliate, and would never rest until he had wrought 
some secret injury upon one or both. Ho, there was no remedy; 
there was but one course — silence and indifference.” 

Myra conquered, as she always did, and the sycophant’s name 
was dropped for more pleasant themes. Elmer had never met him 
at Yiolet Bank, the lover preferring odd hours, when he might 
enjoy the quiet companionship of his betrothed. And so their 
lives flowed on like a limpid stream, reflecting the flashes of sun- 
light that played upon its surface, while the current ran soft and 
smooth below. 

July was drawing to a close when the only obstacle in the way 
of our heroine’s supreme happiness was removed by a voluminous 
epistle from Oscar, which he playfully headed: “‘Paradise Be- 
gained.’ ” 

“ He was at home, as she would see from the caption, and wrote 
to inform her of an important event which would take place at an 


A RECONCILIATION. 


177 


early day. He had urged a speedy marriage, and Henrietta had 
been at last vanquished. It would be an unostentatious affair, the 
guests including only their nearest friends. Henrietta did not 
think that the ceremony could be performed unless she was there, 
and also insisted that Mr. Harrison should accompany her, or any 
other friend whom she thought proper to honor as escort. 

‘‘And now, my dearest friend and intercessor,” ran the closing 
paragraph, “what can I say, but to pray that the blessing of the 
peace-maker may be yours ! to beg that you will accept a brother’s 
warmest love and esteem, and should it ever be ray privilege to 
«erve you, you will remember — 

“ Yours ever, Oscar.” 

The cards, received a week later, were followed by a discon- 
nected, blotted scrawl, which needed not the simple signature, 
“ H. B.” to identify the excited scribe. 

Lionel was consulted ; he had been very chary of his company 
of late, pleading, for his remissness, a press of business. “It 
would atibrd him ineffable pleasure, but it would be impossible 
for him to attend, having on hand a troublesome suit which re- 
quired his undivided attentian.” His claims were generously trans- 
ferred to Elmer, which arrangement created quite a stir among 
the quidnuncs, who had, by this time, gotten an inkling of the true 
state of affairs, and were wondering mentally at their own stu- 
pidity. 

The bridal eve proved propitious, and the occasion highly en- 
joyable to all parties, excepting one, who concealed a stifled exe- 
cration in the wreathing smile with which she accompanied her 
graceful congratulations to the happy pair. 

Upon the reception of Oscar’s letter, Myra, had written to 
Florence to meet her at Fenland Hall, and return with her home. 
She was, accordingly, on hand, and expressed herself charmed 
with Mr. Fairfield, with whom, she laughingly declared, she had 
lost her heart already. 

Jerome, who assisted the officiating minister, having been or- 
dained some months previous, was also in attendance. He seized 
the earliest opportunity for renewing their acquaintance, and the 
real pleasure he felt at meeting her needed no other avowal than 
the warmth of his greeting. He said as much in words, however, 
and as he uttered these trite conventionalities, it was with a strange 


178 


MYRA. 


flattering at his heart, which brought home to him the startling 
conviction, that the admiration which had been aroused within 
him twelve months before, had drifted into a sentiment deeper and 
more lasting; and Mjra, from some cause, felt ill at ease. 

When the festivities were over, and the three friends had re- 
tired to their old room to enjoy a cozy chat preparatory to the 
final leave-taking, she could no longer withhold the precious secret 
which, until now, she had so selfishly kept from them. Henrietta’s 
arm encircled the waist of the embarrassed speaker. Her only 
reply had been to draw her closer, and subject the hand she held 
to a warmer pressure; while, ’mid a burst of rapture from the 
sylph-like Florence, the exultant gleam which illumined the ceru- 
lean eyes might have betrayed, to a less credulous pair, the thought 
which inspired it. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

“SEEPENTS COIL IN EOSE-THICKET S.” 

M yra was much gratified to find her friend and lover on 
terms of easy friendliness before they had arrived at the 
end of their journey. She had feared lest these two might not 
be mutually pleased; the latter would, doubtless, deem Florence 
frivolous and superficial; while she, on the other hand, could never 
appreciate the true depth and beauty of Elmer’s character. To 
provide against such a possibility, she had tried hard to impress 
each with a favorable opinion of the other in anticipation of the 
meeting, and felt an inward satisfaction in witnessing the result. 

Myra’s penetration was not wholly blinded by affection, and she 
had discovered since, what she would have been very loth to ad- 
mit when at school, that Florence, like the rest of frail mortals,, 
possessed many and glaring faults. Of these, an over-weening 
love of admiration was not the least noticeable, nor did she al- 
ways maintain that evenness of temper and dutiful respect be- 
coming in a sister and daughter. But then, she argued, many ex- 
cuses should be made for her. The straitened circumstances of: 
the father was ever a jarring chord to domestic harmony,, and she 


“serpents coil in rose-thickets.” 179 ’ 

would have been an anomaly certainly, had she not been spoiled 
by the plaudits of he heau monde, of which she was a pampered 
fondling. If she had objectionable qualities, they were counter- 
balanced by much to admire and love. She was, by nature, 
warm-hearted and generous. At least, she, of all others, had no- 
right to complain, since no impatient nor unkind word had she 
ever uttered to her. Hence, she could disapprove, yet still look 
charitably upon the failings of one whose attachment for herself 
was disinterested, tried and true. She had, more tlian once, pre- 
sumed upon their intimacy to the extent of rating her upon her 
foibles, upon occasion of which, tears invariablj dimmed the eyes 
of the fair penitent, and, with the dimpled arms around her neck 
and the lovely head with its crown of burnished gold, like matted 
sunbeams, resting confidingly upon her shoulder, it was easy to 
forget or forgive, remembering that, after all, she was but woman, 
whose very weakness enhanced her charms, and was truthful in 
her reassurance, that she loved her not less devotedly than in the 
old days of their girlish friendship. 

Florence was not many days at Yiolet Bank without drawing 
around her an appreciative cortege. Those who had met her dur- 
ing her former visit hailed her re-appearance among them with un- 
feigned delight, and at once concerted a plan by which to lengthen 
the period of her stay — that of making their immediate vicinity so 
attractive that she would be in no hurry to depart. Of these gal- 
lant conspirators, some there were who were actuated solely by 
State or county pride, others who liked gayety for its own sake, and 
others still, whose motives were unknown. The neighborhood had 
undergone few changes in the interval, and her train of admirers 
comprised, for the most part, those whom she had left, after her 
week’s sojourn, with hearts in a chaos of uncertainty and minds 
half made up (excepting Mr. Henry, who — poor youth ! was still 
smarting under the pangs of unrequited love), and who were, in 
consequence, more easily enslaved; while new-comers, and those 
who had not been so fortunate as to form her acquaintance at the 
time alluded to, were alike eager to behold the notable beauty, and 
test the witchery that had triumphed over the aversion of the 
most avowed misogynists. 

McLyons was among the first who entered the suite. They 
were not exactly strangers, — they had met in Lexington the pre- 


180 


MYRA. 


vious year; and between these two kindred spirits there soon 
sprang up a confidential intimacy, which, in outward appearances, 
verged hard upon a flirtation. They had discussed the tender re- 
gards of Myra and Fairfield with that sportive coolness of some 
so-called ‘‘ friends ” we wot of, and at the end of a fortnight, their 
-combined ingenuity had fixed upon an arch little covin through 
which to make the lovers jealous — just for fun^ of course. 
McLyons proposed what he innocently termed, “ a harmless prank,” 
and his willing confederate readily agreed, declaring that “it 
would be too funny for anything!” 

Elmer’s pleasant visits, with their halcyon hours of quiet happi- 
ness, were necessarily at an end, now that the house was crowded 
with other guests. He had murmured in mock displeasure at this 
invasion upon his lawful rights and privileges, and wished the in- 
truders anywhere but at Yiolet Bank. There was very little com- 
fort, he told Myra, in sitting indifferently by and seeing the 
woman he loved monopolized by others. Hot that he would de- 
prive her of a moment’s enjoyment, but it was martyrdom to him 
— so much so, that he preferred suspending his visits until these 
troublesome personages were well out of the way, since he w'ould 
enjoy her society exclusively or not at all. 

In reply to this she had said : “ Don’t be unreasonable, Elmer. I 
am sorry too, but I am afraid that we are growing very selfish. We 
should be willing to make some sacrifices for the gratification of 
others, and you would not have me violate the laws of hospitality, 
nor subject myself to raillery by a show of partiality.” Encoun- 
tering his admiring gaze, she added teasingly: “1 fear you are 
becoming spoiled by too much indulgence. I have always heard 
that kind treatment was sadly detrimental to the growth of the 
tender passion. I shall be compelled to change my tactics, be 
more exacting and capricious, play at coquetry, and keep you in 
an agony of doubt until you are brought to a sense of your own 
unworthiness, and learn to accept your honors with becoming 
humility.” 

Words have little weight when looks and acts refute them, 
as was proved, in the present instance, by the equanimity he 
maintained throughout the interview, despite her roguish per- 
siflage. 

It was all very well to talk about suspending his visits, and en- 


181 


“ SERPENTS COIL IN ROSE-THICKETS.” 

joying her society exclusively or not at all; but ere a week of self- 
exile had elapsed, Elmer realized that, when he saw her not, 

“ Chaos was come again,” 

and concluded that it was better to see her in a crowd than not 
to see her at all. 

Things w’ent on smoothly enough for awhile, during which 
Myra’s duties as hostess left her little time to bestow upon any 
special favorite ; hence, no shade of uneasiness disturbed her peace- 
of mind when he was more with Florence than herself. It was 
very good of Elmer, she argued, to be so considerate of her feel- 
ings, and spare her the annoyance which any marked attention 
might occasion her. And with this reflection, she was content to- 
surrender him, for the time being, to her fair friend. Credulor 
res amor est ! 

She was not suffered long to enjoy her present tranquillity, how- 
ever, and as day after day went by, and fate seemed against their 
ever having a private word together, she became restless and dis- 
satisfied. Did chance leave them alone, did they seek a prome- 
nade upon the terrace or a tete-a-tete in the library, she was inva- 
riably called off, and her presence demanded elsewhere. And 
then, there was another source of excessive vexation ! when he and 
McLyons met at the house (which was not unfrequently), by some 
strange fatality, she was always thrown with the latter, while the 
former, to avoid coming in contact with a man he could not 
tolerate, as regularly joined the group that contested for the 
smiles of the Kentucky beauty. 

Myra was seriously annoyed ; what to think or how to act, she 
knew not. His manner toward her was evidently changed, his 
bearing haughty and his words equivocal. She was conscious of a 
dull aching at her heart such as she had never before experienced,, 
and felt her cheeks turn crimson, as wdth guilt of shame, when 
she caught his questioning eyes riveted upon her. 

To a less high-minded, sensitive pair, it would have been appa- 
rent that some preconcerted conspiracy were upon the tapis; for 
notwithstanding their affected insouciance^ the tacit understanding 
existing between these gay intriguers would have been man- 
ifest to those versed in the mysteries of ars est celare artem. 
But it is hard for those who are truthful and upright to detect 


182 


MYRA. 


perfidy in others, and the wary allies, noting the success of their 
finesse, redoubled their energies. 

“Florence,” said Myra to her friend one night when they had 
gone to their room, “is Mr. McLyons a friend of yours?” 

Florence looked up. “A friend? AV'ell! I don’t know; not a 
jparticidar friend,” shaking out the golden braids which she was 
leisurely uncoiling; “'Why the query?” 

“ Because,” replied the other, with a troubled face, “ I would 
not wound you for the world, by saying anything detractive of any 
one whom you looked upon as a friend, but I wish he wouldn’t 
visit here.” 

“Wouldn’t visit here?” arching her brows in affected surprise; 
^‘may I ask why?” 

“Because I do not like him,” curtly. 

“ Why ?” persisted the beauty provokingly. 

“ Oh ! for several reasons,” with rising color. 

The comb fell from her hand ; Florence dropped upon a chair, 
■and a merfy gij-lish laugh rung through the dormitory. 

Myra stared at her wonderingly. 

“ Nothing,” she replied, still laughing, in answer to the look of 
inquiry, “I was just thinking what an odd little creature you are. 
What would you wager that I could not guess the spring of 
your dislike?” 

Myra busied herself about the bureau, to cover her confusion. 

“Ah! that tell-tale blush!” cried her amused companion, peer- 
ing mischievously into her eyes. “ Are you quite sure that a cer- 
tain dark-haired gentleman is in no way connected with this sin- 
gular prejudice? 

“There! don’t be offended. I was only jesting,” she said apol- 
ogetically, as Myra, with a pained look, turned impatiently from 
her, “I told you a fib just now. Mr. McLyons is a particular 
friend of mine. I like him ever so much — better than any one I 
know, in fact (your own dear self always excepted), and have 
almost promised — well! no matter what;” she added coquet- 
tishly. 

The searching e3^es were again upon her. She winced beneath 
their regards, and went on in a changed tone: “You do him in- 
justice, Myra. I am not ignorant as to the cause of your anti- 
pathy, neither is he. I have heard him speak of it often, always 


“ SERPENTS COIL IN ROSE-THICKETS ” 183 

with sincere regret for the unfortunate blunder for which you will 
never forgive him. He had heard it rumored, he said, that Mr. 
Fairfield was soon to be married to a young lady in Havana, and 
not dreaming then of the tie which he has since had reason to 
suspect existed between you at the time, and knowing him to be an 
acquaintance, merely mentioned the fact, thinking it a subject of 
mutual interest. He learned afterwards that the mistake arose 
simply from a typographical error, and has longed to explain, but 
you were so — to use his own expression — ‘so unapproachable.’ 

“He was for some time engaged to Mr. Fairfield’s sister, so he 
told me, to whom he was warmly attached; but the brother, wish- 
ing her to wed some one else, never liked him, and finally infiu- 
enced his sister to banish him altogether. He had never wronged 
the former in word or thought, and his one unpardonable offense 
had been, simply, that he loved his sister, — a grave charge to bring 
against a gentleman. The circumstances being such, renders his 
position doubly embarrassing, feeling as he does, that his lightest 
words are misconstrued and his best motives attributed to un- 
manly spite — not a pleasant refiection for a man of honor. He 
admires yonr unwavering fidelity and respects the high-toned prin- 
ciples which prompt your coolness toward himself, and in his 
anxiety to set himself right in your opinion and remove the unfa- 
vorable impression made upon your mind by the incident alluded 
to, he would have even dared to brave your open displeasure, had 
not delicacy forbade anything like a manifestation of curiosity in 
an affaire du coeur of a comparative stranger; for although he 
has made it his study to atone for his unintentional and awkward 
misrepresentation, your manner is so repellent, so distantly polite, 
that he has never been able to advance an inch upon your first ac- 
quaintance.” 

Myra was silenced, but by no means convinced. The defense 
was plausible, though she knew it to be untrue, and she would have 
been at a loss for argument, had not the sudden revelation, that 
he was her friend’s favored suitor, restrained her. She felt sincere 
pity for this vain, weak girl, whom, being judged by her criterion, 
she believed as artless and credulous as herself. How natural that 
she should believe his statement, and how clever was the decep- 
tion ! Her estimate of his character was unchanged, and her 
upright nature forbade an expression of approval she did not 


184 : 


MYRA. 


feel. Since, therefore, she could say nothing encouraging, she 
deemed it best to say nothing at all. 

The accomplished soubrette saw her advantage, and profited by 
it. ‘‘I interpret your silence, she said sorrowfully, ‘‘you do not 
approve of my choice. I cannot blame you. It is natural and 
proper that you should be guided in all things by the man you 
love; but loyalty and justice are not incompatible. I am deeply 
grieved, dear Myra, that you cannot esteem one in whom I have 
reposed my heart’s most sacred trust. I will not chide you,” and 
the blue eyes glistened between humid lashes, “ but can only hope 
that some day you may know him better. At any rate, that you 
will bear with him — for my sake.” 

Picnics and lawn parties superseded soirees and private thea- 
tricals. These Fairfield never attended, and Myra felt, day after 
day, that they were drifting apart and an ocean of reserve wa& 
gradually gathering between them. How nauseating had become 
the artificial life she was leading, which the world, with its hollow 
smile, terms “pleasure!” How she pined for the true and real^ 
wished that there was no such thing as society and appearances; 
that Florence (pardon her, reader,) had never come, or that 
she might be left awhile to peace and quiet! some time to 
think! one short hour in which to ask why he had grown so cold 
and strange! 

Thrice she resolved upon a solution of the mystery, and to in- 
sist upon a written, since she was denied a verbal explanation. 
As often did pride revolt, leaving her half angry with herself and 
impatient with all things else. She tried to look and act as though 
nothing troubled her, to appear as careless and indifierent as the 
most blithesome of those with whom she mingled ; 

“ But sorrow, that is couched in seeming gladness, 

Is like that mirth, fate turns to sudden sadness.” 

The “ mystery ” was, to the initiated, no mystery at all. It was 
a part of the compact that they should see as little of each other 
as possible, in accordance with which, Florence, with exquisite tact,, 
contrived always to draw Elmer to her side, leaving her accom- 
plice a clear field ; while he, on the other hand, knowing the ar- 
rangement to be anything but agreeable to the lover, was most 
assiduous in his attentions. The former, being an inmate of the 


‘‘serpents coil in rose-thickets.” 185 

house and confidante of one, if not both, possessed more varied 
means of achieving the desired end than her less favored suitor. 
Yigilant ever, not an unshed tear or a sigh escaped her ; and so 
well did this feminine lago act the part assigned her, that at the 
end of a month, Fairfield was a prey to doubts which he dare not 
own. To allay the uneasiness of which he was the tortured vic- 
tim, he determined to see her at once and alone. He called twice, 
with the same unsatisfactory result: she w^as out. Then came 
a note, requesting an interview. With reviving hope, Myra was 
sealing a reply in the affirmative, when her friend reminded her 
of an engagement which they could not break, and which, in the 
agitation of the moment, had escaped her memory. This settled 
the question. There was a limit to everything: he would see her, 
and that before another dawn. He would know the meaning of 
this singular contrariety of word and action. His intentions, how- 
ever, were changed suddenly, when, upon being shown into the 
drawing-room unannounced a few hours later, the scene which 
greeted him was Mj^ra at the piano, his supposed rival turning her 
music with an air of easy assurance. His eyes met hers. He 
looked but once; but oh! what sorrowful entreaty and re- 
proach were in that glance! He bowed stiffly, looked about 
him, and sought Florence, wlio watched the proceedings from 
a bay window opposite. 

Myra was in a maze. She longed to rush from the apartment. 
Her words were uttered mechanically ; her thoughts were with 
the couple across the room. 

“You will ride this afternoon;” she said to Florence, after the 
siesta the following day, “ whom will you honor by accompanying ?” 

“Guess;” with a quizzical expresssion. 

“That would be a difficult matter, when one has as many ad- 
mirers as Miss Stillbury,” she responded, with the ghost of a 
smile. 

“Mr. Fairfield,” eying her keenly. 

“ Don’t be jealous, dear,” said the coquette patronizingly, as 
Myra reddened foolishly ; “ men are the silliest creatures !” 

Fairfield was waiting below, and Florence, equipped for a drive, 
■was descending the stairs, when she was met by a servant, bearing 
a handsome bouquet for Miss Stillbury, with Mr. McLyon’s com- 
pliments. “ Oh ! bother the men !” she exclaimed petulantly, re- 
13 


186 


MYRA. 


tracing her steps to pen a note of thanks. “ Here, Myra, I am 
in a hurry; the horses are restless and Mr. Fairfield impatient. 
Direct this, please,” tossing her an envelope. 

Myra was hardly a rational being, just then. She picked it up 
absently, and obeyed in silence. 

Fairfield said nothing, but his brow was as black as midnight 
and his lips compressed more closely, as he recognized the familiar 
calligraphy on the envelope handed the bearer. 

Myra stood gazing after them from the window until their figures- 
were lost in a cloud of dust ; then throwing herself upon the bed,, 
sobbed bitterly. 

They had gone perhaps a mile before either spoke, Elmer un- 
willing and his companion fearing to break the silence. 

Miss Florence !” he said, at length, abruptly confronting her,. 
“ we have never treated each other as strangers. I was prepared 
to like before I knew you, and since our first meeting, have con- 
sidered you a friend. You have a woman’s penetration and sym- 
pathetic nature. That I am unhappy, you have discovered long 
since; that, so far as in your power lies, you would gladly alleviate 
my sufferings, 1 am convinced from past kindnesses. Will you in- 
crease my obligations by answering, to the best of your knowledge, 
a few questions upon a subject that concerns me deeply?” 

“With pleasure, Mr. Fairfield, provided they involve no be- 
trayal of confidence.” 

“Thank you,” gloomily; “you are a confidante of Miss Mars- 
ton’s?” 

“Yes.” 

“ And have been — ” 

“ Since we were at school together.” 

“You know her disposition?” 

“Better than my own.” 

“ Has she faults ?” 

“Yes; all of us have.” 

“You love her?” 

“ Devotedly.” 

“ A woman’s love !” he exclaimed, contemptuously, “ what is it ?’^ 

“More lasting than a man’s,” she protested, with calm earnest- 
ness. 

“You believe it?” questioned he, skeptically. 


187 


‘‘serpents coil in rose-thickets.” 


“I know it !” 

“Yon are an advocate of your sex. Perhaps you would deem 
it disloyal to admit their inconstancy, insincerity, vanity, or 
rather — weakness.” 

“ An advocate of my sex, certainly — I despise the woman who 
is not — but only so far as I conscientiously believe, as they hon- 
estly deserve. I claim justice, nothing more.” 

“And you conscientiously believe what you have just asserted?” 

“ I do.” 

“ Then you are less observant, less discerning, than I fancied 
you. Twelve months ago I believed as you do. Experience is a 
stern, hard, unsparing, but infallible teacher. I am wiser now.” 

(Silence, during which his companion turned upon him a face 
all sympathy, all tenderness.) 

“You love her,” he went on, in the same melancholy strain; 
and then, to himself: “so do I.” 

'No answer. 

He sighed heavil}^: “Blind, fond, besotted fool that I was, to 
have ever imagined that she cared for me !” he mused. 

“She love yon,” broke in the reassuring tones; “she did 
love you, and loves you now P'‘ 

The lover shook his head sorrowfully: “You are mistaken. 
Love has some consideration for its object.” 

“ She does love you,” with greater emphasis than before. 

“How then do you explain her demeanor toward the man I de- 
spise ?” 

“Nothing easier. She does it to prove you.” 

“To prove m^e!” with ire. 

“Yes. She cares nothing for Mr. McLyons. Her dislike is 
only second to your own.” 

“ And yet, she receives his attentions, accepts his flowers and 
writes him polite billets.” 

“ Etiquette requires it.” 

“ Etiquette!”' with curling lip, “the laws of etiquette do not de- 
mand a violation of truth and principle.” 

“You are making yourself unhappy about nothing, Mr. Fair- 
field,” said she, with mild severity, “ by raising from a spectre a 
host of goblins. Your fears are groundless, believe me. She is only 
trifling with him, — she told me as much, not a week since.” 


188 


MYRA. 


“Trifling!” he repeated, indignantly, “trifling!” while an anjD:ry 
light flashed from tlie dark eyes; “if I believed that she could so 
demean herself — ” 

“You are hasty, uncharitable;” with quiet composure. “The 
practice you condemn is a failing characteristic of our sex. Ad- 
miration is a woman’s right, and fascination her only weapon. It 
is no small triumph for a novice to hook the gold-fish which 
beauties and heiresses have angled for in vain.” 

He bit his lips in suppressed passion, but his voice was low and 
respectful. “Miss Florence,” he said huskily, “you have done 
what you could. I thank you. You have tried to reassure, tried 
to encourage, tried to cheer me. I appreciate the endeavor, not 
less that you have failed, failed utterly — worse than failed! The 
will is good, but you little know your art.. Your sympathy is 
sweet, but your balm is wormwood. The words meant to console 
are like a two-edged sword, riving a heart already torn, shattering 
a faith already shaken. You cannot, oh you cannot know how I 
loved her! passionately! blindly! You say that she has faults. 
1 could discover none. I believed Iier all that was pure, true, high- 
minded and noble — a perfect woman ! bowed heart and soul before 
her altar, and loved with all the depth and fervor of my nature. 
My love can recognize no medium. If I have been deceived, have 
staked all and lost, ratlier would I believe her falser than false- 
hood, more deceitful than hypocrisy, so that I might fly from — but 
forget lier~never ! tlian the vain, flckle toy of art and flattery 
which you portray.” 

“ I am sorry, very sorry,” and her voice trembled, “ tliat my 
panacea has proved so inefficacious — sorry that I irritated, when I 
meant to soothe. You are not like yourself, I think. You scarcely 
know what you are saying. It grieves me to hear you talk so. You 
are excited, now; harsh and unjust. You will be calmer, more 
reasonable, ere long, and see things in a different light. I admit 
that you have had much to vex you; but if you are seeking 
fection, you are in search of an ideal you are destined never to And. 
I am ignorant, I know, deplorably ignorant ; but I know some 
things, if I am not so clever as one of my friends,” with a shy 
glance at the pale, stern face just above her own. “I know 
girls, and Myra in particular. She is all that you believed her, 
^ pure, true, high-minded and noble,’ but not wholly exempt from 


189 


“ SERPENTS COIL IN ROSE-THICKETS.” 

the frailties which human nature is heir to. I would expostulate 
with her — tax her with unkindness, with w’ant of generosity, did I 
not know the consequences. She would brook no strictures upon 
her conduct ; no strictures from me. She would consider the 
affair no business of mine; would think me officious, meddlesome. 
It would nettle her, make her more tantalizing and perverse. Your 
fate lies in your own hands. It is for you to decide whether you 
will win or lose.” 

He looked at her enquiringly. She answered with a smile that 
— to him — would have been encouraging, had he not been in any- 
thing but a hopeful mood, just then. It played a moment upon 
her lips, and her voice was peculiarly persuasive : “ I have failed 
as conciliator; try me as counselor.” 

He inclined his head, as in expectancy, and without awaiting 
permission, she pursued: “Woman’s heart is a singular com- 
pound: a little cold, a little warm; a little hard, a little tender; 
a little imperious, a little submissive; a little stubborn, a little 
yielding; an ai’tistic blending of faults and virtues. Fitful as an 
April day! — won more often by neglect — pique, if you will — 
than by long, untiring, obsequious devotion. Perhaps you have 
been too self-surrendering, too much a puppet to her whims. You 
must be more independent — indifferent, if need be. Discontinue 
your visits for awhile. Let her feel your absence, your waning af- 
fection. She will recall you, never fear.” 

“I cannot,” said he, sadly. 

“ Cannot ?” mimicked she, in an altered tone ; “ very well ! Then 
you reject my sympathy and scorn my advice. Some day you 
may see your error. I am sorry, Mr. Fairfield, that I am so in- 
competent to serve you.” 

“You misunderstand me,” he said apologetically. “I appre- 
ciate and thank you for both — ^you do not need that I should repeat 
this — but I cannot stoop to dissimulation. I could brave anything, 
suffer anything; but soil my honor? no! not even for her P" 

“There is nothing to soil your honor in just resentment. 
There is nothing a woman admires so much as independence. 
You said, just now, ‘that I little knew my art.’ You under- 
stand yours less. Your theory is good, but your tactics de- 
cidedly injudicious. Desperate ends must be brought about by 
desperate means, and they do not love truly who are not willing 


190 


MYRA. 


to sacrifice all else for the one grand issue upon which hangs a 
life of joy or wretchedness. They who let scruples outweigh their 
love do not deserve to be blest.” 

“ Then you would have me seem other than I am. In other 
words, I must act the hypocrite.” 

“I^ot the hypocrite, but the honorable gentleman, who knows 
his rights and dares maintain them.” 

Evening closed in, and still the drive and tete-aAete were pro- 
longed, Fairfield, growing more facile under the half persuasive, 
half derisive logic of his fair monitor. Heaven’s myriad lamps 
were lit when they returned. There were visitors below, but 
Myra had not gone dowm. She was looking from the window* 
watched them climb the terrace and enter the portico. There 
they stood for some time, conversing sotto voce. 

“And if she shows contrition,” he whispered, replacing his hat, 
“if you think she really cares — if there is any hope for me — you 
will let me know.” 

“Yes, I will; trust all to m.e.” 

He took the white hand and carried it to his lips. “You are a 
good friend,” he said, feelingly; “ very kind, very patient with me. 
Better, far better, than I deserve.” 

Myra could not catch the words. She only heard subdued 
voices. A strange feeling crept o’er her, like a premonition of 
il], as she saw Elmer descend and disappear in the shadows. 


CHAPTER XX. 


EAVESDEOPPING, AND WHAT CAME OF IT. 



T was late in September, and Florence was to leave them on 


tlie morrow. Myra looked up nervously at every ring of the 
door-bell, and started involuntarily as Fairfield entered the parlors, 
for the first time since the drive and conversation above detailed. 
The room was full. This was no time for questions and explana- 
tions; so, with a mighty effort, she checked the rising impulse, 
and tried to forget that there were other gentlemen in tlie world 
than the one she was entertaining. 


EAVESDROPPING, AND WHAT CAME OF IT 


191 


There was enough wit and beauty present to engage the atten- 
tion of the attendant beaux — she would hardly be missed could 
fihe make her exit unobserved. Watching her opportunity, there- 
fore, she slipped out to compose herself and gain strength for the 
trying ordeal, unconscious of the dark pleading eyes that followed 
her retiring figure. 

Gaining her chamber, she threw open the casement and let the 
breezes sport among the weaves of chestnut hair and fan her throb- 
bing temples. Leaning her head against the frame-work, she 
looked out upon the peaceful welkin, whose soft light beamed pen- 
sively upon her, as though to quell the tumultuous emotions that 
stirred her bosom. A flood of memories swept over her. Sweet, 
regretful memories ! lost in the dawning hope, whose flickering 
ray illumined lier w^oman’s soul. A pearly tear stole down her 
cheek. She brushed it away gently, and pressed her hand upon 
her heart to still its beating. 

It was not anger, it was not resentment, that dimmed the wonted 
lustre of her eye, but hope’s uncertain gleam, penetrating the dark- 
some vapors that hovered about her future; for the human heart 
is like a delicate evergreen, which, though wrapped for a time in 
an icy mantle, beneath which all is dark, and damp and cold, and 
though dwarfed and odorless under the despotic reign of the 
winter-king, is fresh and living still. And ah ! who dreams of the 
wealth of beauty concealed in the unsightly snow-bank, until 
thawing suns and vernal show'ers reveal its hidden treasure! 
Capricious youth! Despondent without reason, sanguine with- 
out cause! How prone to mould futurity after the fashion of 
its own will! its transient joys and wasting sorrows fluttered 
with a breath ! 

It might have been an hour, it might have been more. She had 
no conception of the flight of time. A sound upon the portico 
recalled her to herself. Mindful of the conjectures which her ab- 
sence might occasion, she adjusted her toilet and descended the 
stairway with a lighter step, as confldent in the whispered assur- 
ance of her own heart that “all would be well,” as though she 
saw her lover, penitent and pleading, at her feet. 

She was crossing the hall when voices upon the porch arrested 
her attention. The door was slightly ajar, and she paused as she 
spied through the aperture a white dress, whose wearer she knew 


192 


MYEA. 


to be Florence, and another form, a form she thought she recog- 
nized. 

“Is this all you have to tell me?” said the full, manly tones she 
knew so well; “Is this the happiness you promised should bo 
mine? Is all lost? Have I nothing to live for — nothing to hope 
for? Will you leave me without a word of encouragement or 
consolation ?” 

The beauty sighed, but did not speak. 

You cannot understand a love like mine,” and the deep voice 
faltered. “ Could you conceive of my sufferings, you would pity 
the wretch whose passion is as intense and deathless as ’tis mis^ 
placed and hopeless.” 

Myra seemed petrified. She had. heard nothing of their pre- 
vious conversation, and could not know that it was she of whom 
he spoke. She only heard the low, passionate words which she 
had foolishly believed were for her alone ; saw herself duped, be- 
trayed ! She would have cried out in her sudden anguish and fled 
from a scene that froze her blood ; but the stunning blow had de- 
prived her of volition, and with blanching face and colorless lips, 
she stood transfixed. A deadly pang pierced her heart, scattering 
the bleeding fragments, and leaving in its stead a nameless void ! 
an indescribable hiatus ! 

Her sensations might be compared to those of a fallen angel,, 
who, banished from the sublimer element, in ’mid-air suspended, 
descries through the lucent ether the beauties of his celestial home. 
Forgetful of his fallen estate, he plumes his wings, and soars, soars, 
soars, until alighting at the shining portal, he finds it closed, and 
closed to him forever ! His pinions are fettered, and he is hurled 
into fathomless depths of blackest night ! 

The breeze stifled, and the gay laugh and jocund voices of her 
merry guests smote on her ear like the gibes of the lost. 

The white dress rustled, and as Florence’s eyes encountered 
hers, she hurried on to the drawing-room with a sense of guilt and 
shame strong upon her, at being detected in the first dishonorable' 
act of her life — eavesdropping. 

She talked, she played, she sang, — sang as she had never sung 
before ! like that eastern bird, which warbles its own requiem, and 
expires ! 


EAVESDROPPING, AND WHAT CAME OF IT. IQS’ 

The couple returned from the porch ; Florence joined the group- 
by the piano, but Elmer sat apart, gloomy and preoccupied. 

Tliere was a wild, a touching pathos in every strain, growing 
more wondrous sweet as it rose and fell on the tide of song. 
There was a knell in every chord, a wail of despair in every trill, - 
that found its way to every heart save his who inspired it. 

Elmer heard all, but felt uotliing. He only saw that she was 
affable and engaging as usual, proud of her triumph, conscious of 
her power, and gloried in liis wretchedness. 

What a fearful thing is jealousy ! A lying, mocking imp ! 
misery’s own cup-bearer ! and he who drinks of his cordial, barters 
his little foretaste of heaven, while yet on earth, for the infernal 
draught. 

Myra forbore that night any allusion to the subject uppermost 
in her thoughts. A suspicion of her friend’s treachery was be- 
ginning to dawn upon her, blinded as she was by afiection and du- 
plicity, and with it a hundred trivial circumstances, which, though 
unremarked at the time, when taken in connection with the dis- 
closures of the evening, were full of significance. Still she would 
give her an opportunity to exculpate herself, if, upon any plea,, 
she could vindicate her conduct. 

Florence was more thouglitful, considerate and tender, despite 
the haughty coldness with which her victim submitted to, without 
returning her caresses. Her actions were such as to assure the 
afflicted one of her sincere and heart-felt commiseration, without 
obtruding upon the grief which she well knew was tearing the 
tenuous fibrils of that proud, sensitive heart. Any mention of 
Fairfield was mutually avoided therefore, and Myra retired to her 
couch, but not to rest, while the racking thoughts, the bitter re- 
collections that surged through her tortured brain, merged into 
one — sJie had been betrayed! 

Sleep came not with its magic balm and peaceful oblivion, as 
the tedious hours wore on. Only one consolation the morn could 
bring. It would at least rid her of that fair, false face, which had 
now become more loathsome to her than that of her fawning con- 
federate. “What shall I do?” she cried inly, as she revolved her 
course. 

Had Lionel been consulted, the fatal misunderstanding might 
never have occurred. But she could not go to this noble friend 


194 


MYKA. 


and faithful mentor with the story of her wrongs. For why ? — had 
he not hinted that Florence might not be all that she seemed ? 
And had she not laughed at his sage suggestion, his superior dis- 
cernment, paying no heed to his gentle caution ? She could not 
bring herself to say to him, for whose deep, unselfish devotion she 
had given only a sisterly regard, that lover and friend, in whose 
honor and fidelity she had trusted as her own, had proved them- 
selves alike faithless. 

“Florence!” she said frigidly, at parting, “I owe you an apol- 
ogy for unintentionally overhearing your conversation with Mr. 
Fairfield, last evening. It was unpremeditated, believe me, and 
gladly would I have spared myself this humiliating confession, had 
not astonishment chained me to the spot.” 

“ Florence looked at her eagerly, beseechingly. “ Did you hear 
allT'^ she asked, with peculiar emphasis. 

“I heard enough,” was the bitter rejoinder. 

The white arms were thrown impulsively around her; the blue 
eyes dewy with tears. “ You are angry with me,” came the sor- 
sowful objurgation, “angry with me^ your best and dearest 
friend 1” 

Myra strove to free herself, but she only clasped her the more 
tightly. “I know what you think,” she went on, deprecatingly, 
“ but oh, Myra, how you wrong me 1 It was for your sake and to 
secure your happiness that I suffered it. I saw that you had been 
deceived, and that he was unworthy of you. I would have 
warned you before, but feared to wound or displease you. I 
had resolved to tell you before I left, but you have spared me the 
pain. You have seen and heard for yourself. Why should I say 
more?” 

Myra stood irresolute, stifling her sobs and struggling with the 
rebellious tears. 

“ Don’t,” cried the friend, in tones of entreaty, feeling the con- 
vulsions of the slender figure. “Don’t. You must not. It kills 
me to see you suffer. Don’t think of him — he is not worth it. 
He is a deceitful hypocrite, a fickle, shameless flirt, unworthy the 
love of any true woman. I knew how it would distress you, shock 
you, when, in your blind infatuation, you believed him all that a 
man could be; but I would be no better than he, were I to keep 
it from you; and rather would I witness this temporary grief, hard 


EAVESDROPPING, AND WHAT GAME OF IT. 


195 


as it is, than see you condemned to life-long misery. Think of 
liis temerity, too ! to come to your own house — to your most inti- 
mate friend and confidante — with stories of his ‘ deathless love !’ 
I told him, in plain language, my opinion of his conduct, and that 
I scorned a love as false as his ! But it did no good. He is 
hardened beyond retrieve. He says he knows now that he never 
loved you : that the circumstances of your meeting and the sub- 
sequent revelations worked upon his romantic fancy, and he be- 
lieved, at the time, that he really loved you. He has since dis- 
covered his mistake, but being a man of honor, will take no 
steps towards its dissolution, and will fulfil his engagement, if you 
wish it, but thinks that when you understand the true state of his 
feelings, you will be generous enough to release him. I knew you 
well enough to know that you would never give credence to a 
word against him, until he had proved, conclusively, that he was not 
what you thought ,him. This is my reason for allowing the de- 
■claration, to a part of which, you were an unintentional and un- 
willing listener.” 

“There, now,” she said, coaxingly, “don’t think any more about 
it. 1 wouldn’t let him know that I cared a fig for him, and there 
are a dozen others who would be only too glad to fill his place. 
Men, as a general rule, are pretty much on a par — as fickle as the 
wind, and not worth a thought. It grieves me to leave you, when 
I so long to stay with and comfort you. But you won’t distress 
yourself. Promise me that you won’t. I shall write as soon as 
I reach home. In the meantime, remember that, whate’er betide, 
you have one friend, who, let come what may, will 7iever forsake 
you.” 

Myra made no reply. The last sentence she scarcely heard. 
She was absorbed in her own thouglits, reviewing mentally the 
•events of the previous evening. Her lover’s unworthiness was no 
less apparent ; but Florence, in her anxiety to “ make assurance 
doubly sure,” had outwitted herself. The sigh tliat had been borne 
to her from the porch was born neither of scorn nor indignation, 
and as it fell again upon the intellectual tympanum, it rung 
.through her brain like the hiss of a serpent. 


196 


MYRA. 


CHAPTER XXL 

IVY COTTAGE.— A DKEAM AND ITS SEQUEL. 

‘^ny/roTHER!” 

1 V I ‘‘Well, daughter !” 

“I think 1 shall spend next week at Ivy Cottage.” 

“But, my child!” 

“But, mother!” 

“Florence only left this morning, surely you have not begun to 
feel lonely already.” 

“No, ma’am, I am not at all lonely.” 

“Why, then, this sudden determination?” 

“It is not sudden, mother,” evasively; “the trip was in con- 
templation before Florence’s departure. Henrietta’s letter, re- 
ceived a few hours since, decided me.” 

“But,” objected the mother mildly, “you have not been quite 
well lately; I am afraid the fatigue would be too mucli for you. 
Don’t you think you had better stay at home and recruit awhile? 
You need rest and quiet after your summer’s dissipation.” 

“Not rest — change,” with an effort to smile. “Iso long to 
see them in their new home,” she went on eagerly; “I have had 
enough of gayety for the present; as for quiet, I could not expect 
it here; it is different there; I can think of nothing more grati- 
fying than a peep into such an Eden as Henrietta describes. My 
exodus will be as precipitate as my advent; that is, I intend to 
leave before the news is rumored abroad, by which means I hope 
to enjoy their society in peace.” 

“But there is no one to accompany you; ‘father’ is busy, Lio- 
nel ” 

“I don’t wish to trouble either father or Lionel,” she interrupted 
hastily ; “ I don’t require an escort for a three hours’ ride. The- 
f act is, I should prefer going alone ; it would be all the nicer.” 

“But you have not apprised Henrietta of your coming; you 
will not be expected so soon^ there will be no one to meet you.” 

“Are you sure of it?” playfully; “Ivy Cottage is only a mile 


IVY COTTAGE. A DREAM AND ITS 8EQUP:L. 


197 


from C ; Oscar is in town every forenoon; I can send 

him a telegram from B , to be at the depot on my arrival.” 

Mrs. Marston eyed her daughter narrowly, with an expression 
•of genuine solicitude. ‘‘My child !” she said persuasively, “I am 
at a loss to account for this singular freak. It would suit better 
for you to go later; don’t you think you could postpone your 
visit a few weeks?” 

Myra met the questioning glance with frank,'* pleading eyes. 
“Mother,” she said earnestly, “it is not a ‘freak,’ as you imagine. 
A few weeks hence I might not care to go. I have a reason; I 
wish to go iiowT 

She liad, as we have already seen, a morbid propensity for 
changing localities whenever she got into any serious trouble. 
She had an idea that change of scene and surroundings would 
divert her mind, give temporary relief, and help her to forget. 
She did not know that her heart was a fane, that one deity ex- 
cluded all others, and that from thought’s mysterious fount — a 
fount she could not seal — would arise the shades of departed joys, 
wdiich, like Vestal virgins, would tend the sacred flame, keeping 
love’s Are ever bright : that so long as memory and reason lasted, 
until she could flee from herself, she could not obliterate the 
sweet, troubled past; and that go where she might, the piercing 
• cry, the piteous moan, the plaintive prayer: “Teach me, ah ! teach 
me to forget!” would bring back one mocking echo: Never T 

Silence followed, during which Mrs. Marston regarded her 
daughter scrutinizingly. 

“I am in earnest; I really wish it,” Myra reiterated, guessing 
the nature of her thoughts. 

“As you like, my child,” acceded the doting mother, whose 
tractable will was accustomed to succumb to that of the more re- 
solute daughter. “ My objections arose simply from the fear that 
you might overtask your strength. I have no desire to oppose 
any reasonable wish that could add to your enjoyment; 1 have no 
aim in life but to make you happy.” 

Myra answered her with a look of mingled love and gratitude, 
and shortly afterwards quitted the chamber. 

Mrs. Marston arose as the door closed after her, and walked to 
the window. It opened upon the long balcony which Myra paced 
with bowed head and folded arms, profoundly meditative. She 


198 


MYEA. 


was turning the corner for the tenth time, when she chanced to 
look np suddenlj’, and encountering her mother’s eyes through the 
window-pane, halted abruptly and entered the hall. 

Mrs. Marston returned to her seat, and resumed her work with 
a troubled face. Something of the truth had penetrated her mind.. 
That Myra was not herself, she had noticed for weeks past; but 
with the undiscerning partiality of a loving parent, had attributed 
the change to any but the true cause. That any one could become 
estranged from her^ the idol of so many hearts, amounted almost 
to an absurdity in her opinion ; and that the fair girl, whose affec- 
tion for her child was more the devotion of a sister than a friend, 
could be other than she seemed, was no less preposterous to one 
as guileless and unsuspecting as herself. Still, as days went by,, 
and Elmer failed to make his appearance, the possibility of a 
“difference” at last presented itself — “a lover’s quarrel,” which,, 
like a summer cloud, would soon pass ovpr, leaving no trace of 
its transient gloom. Such was her interpretation of the “singu- 
lar freak,” and the consciousness of a care she could not lighten 
the cause of anxiety which showed itself in the still beautiful 
countenance. 

This was Tuesday, and Myra left on the early train the following 
morning. Her mother accompanied her to the station. All was 
quiet in the village as they drove through, just as the rising sun 
was peering through the distant tree-tops. 

She drew up at the post-office, and alighted, for the alleged pur- 
pose of leaving directions for the forwarding of mail during her 
absence. Fortune favored her for once, and it was with a feeling 
of infinite relief that slie found — for a wonder — Mr. Fudge in 
attendance, instead or his garrulous consort. He rubbed his eyes 
sleepily as she entered, swallowed a yawn as he raised his hat 
(which, by the way, he generally wore throughout the day, re- 
gardless of place or posture), listened to her injunctions with- 
out change of countenance, took the package she handed him 
somewhat reluctantly, and without even so much as a glance 
at the superscription, tossed it over his shoulder, along with the 
morning’s mail. 

Ivy Cottage was just what the name would imply, and just such 
a home as might be expected with Henrietta as presiding genius. 


lYY COTTAGE. A DREAM AND ITS SEQUEL. 


199 


Approaching by a shady detour, you came suddenly upon a 
wilderness of sweets — shrubs, honeysuckles and flowering plants, 
growing alike in untrained exuberance, climbing here and trailing 
there, interlacing their flexile sprays and mingling tlieir versi- 
colored diadems with the darker foliage, forming a confused mass- 
of floral beauties. In the rear sloped a gentle declivity, clad in 
living green, where the trellises groaned beneath their load of tan- 
gled vines, with their red and purple clusters. On one side lay 
the garden, on the other the orchard, while in the centre stood 
the villa itself, tiny, antique and picturesque. It had been the 
property of a distinguished author, then deceased, who came and 
went with the roses, living, while here, in strict seclusion. He 
was a gentleman of taste and culture, and had fltted up this 
summer lodge in consonance with his own peculiar ideas. The 
chateau was of brick, low and rambling; the architecture simple 
and unique, with its dormer-windows, alcoves and daintily -carved 
balusters. Creeping ivy clung about the gable and hung in long^ 
loose pendants from roof and wall. Within all was in liarmony 
with the scene without, simplicity, taste and neatness so exquis- 
itely blended, that beauty and fragrance greeted the senses on 
every hand — a Fenland Hall in miniature! 

Myra was charmed, Oscar delighted and Henrietta overjoyed, 
‘‘What do you think of our home?” asked the latter, with her 
sunny smile, when, later in the day, she had shown her visitor over 
the premises. 

“I think,” replied her companion, thoughtfully, “that the cynic 
who dives deep into the mysteries of metaphysics, theorizes and 
moralizes, holding himself and his dyspepsia above the creatures 
of his kind, and scofPs at the stupidity of ‘love in a cottage,’ need 
spend but an hour at Ivy Cottage to make him ashamed of him- 
self and his snarlings, and bring home to him the startling realiza- 
tion that he is not a man at all, but an intellectual beast — a cross 
between a bear and a demigod.” 

And Myra’s extravagant commendation was not undeserved. 
There was between this genial pair no ostentatious display of 
that self-sacriflcing devotion supposed to exist between those who 
have taken the vows “ for better or for worse,” which is not only 
tiresome to all around them, but coarse and disgusting; in a ma- 
jority of cases, evanescent, too, taking wings with the honey- 


MYKA. 


:_200 

moon, and nsnally succeeded by sentiments quite the reverse. 
There was in their deportment none of the nonsensical affecta- 
•tion of newly-married people, but a quiet deference for the wishes 
and opinions of each other, which spoke in every look, word and 
action. Theirs was no sickly flame to spend itself in flowery 
speeches and loving glances, but affection of that higher type, 
founded upon mutual respect, the only sure basis of conjugal fe- 
licity. It was a pleasure to be with them, and something of their 
own light-heartedness was unconsciously transfused into those 
with whom they were thrown. 

Myra’s unexpected visit had for the merry hostess no signifl- 
•cance beyond a desire to see her and the “Arcadia” of which she 
had written so much. Oscar was not so easily hoodwinked ; he 
recalled her last evening in Lexingtop, their conversation, and the 
impression made upon him at the time. His suspicions were 
communicated to his youthful helpmeet, wdio laughed them away 
with tlie mental resolve to go to the bottom of the secret, if 
secret it were. Prefacing her interrogations, therefore, with an 
arch inquiry after “the chevalier,” she was met by a look so 
cold, so stern, so unlike anything she had ever seen in tliat coun- 
tenance before, that, pained and wondering, she changed the sub- 
ject abruptly, and never ventured to repeat the ofiPense. She had 
looked forward to having her a long time with them, and had al- 
ready begun to devise schemes for rendering her stay more plea- 
surable. She was inconsolable for the former and amazed at the 
latter, when she was informed of the uncertainty of the one, with 
the request that the news of her arrival miglit not be circulated, 
as she would prefer quiet and their own society above any the 
vicinity could afford. Henrietta was importunate, seconded by 
Oscar, and their guest undecided. 

It was her second day at the Cottage, wdien another visitor, 
equally unexpected, was received with no less cordiality. About 
ten in the morning the friends were startled by a peal of the 
door-bell. Myra’s pulses quickened as a tall flgure was ushered 
in, and was puzzled to think who it could be, when the servant an- 
nounced : “ A gentleman to see the ladies.” 

Henrietta rose demurely, and assuming a matronly air, went 
down to meet the formidable stranger. An exclamation of plea- 
sure burst from her, as she was greeted by a pleasant-faced, amiable 


fVY COTTAGE. A DKEAM AND ITS SEQUEL. 


201 


looking gentleman, who clasped lier hand and asked after her 
health with the ease and interest of an old acquaintance. His 
grave dignity and general appearance (decidedly clerical) leave 
the reader in no doubt as to his identity. 

Myra felt that some unlucky star had guided her to this spot, 
and secretly annoyed, with whom or what she could hardly tell, 
as she heard the impulsive : “ Oh, Mr. Jerome ! I am so glad to see 
you; but had no idea that you were nearer than a hundred miles.” 

“Not half so glad as I am,” was the quiet response. “The 
meeting is as unexpected to me as to you; I only left home yes- 
terday.” 

“'And to what happy circumstance am I indebted for this un- 
looked-for pleasure ?” 

“Several,” with a quizzical smile. “I found it necessary to 

take a trip which took me through C . I arrived there about 

an hour since, missed connection, fell in with Maurice, was in- 
quiring about yon, and debating in my own mind the question of 
calling, when he told me that Miss Marston was with you.” 

“And that decided you,” broke in Henrietta with a gay laugh. 

“That decided me,” mischievously. 

“And so I am to understand that I owe the present honor, not 
to our former friendship, but to the fact of having with me an 
attractive friend,” in tones of offended dignity, with a knowing 
twinkle in the black eyes. 

“ Exactly,” with provoking gravity. 

“You would not have been so ungallant three months ago. Ah 
me!” she sighed deprecatingly, “that comes of being married. 
How soon the popular ‘Miss’ sinks into an insignificant ‘Mrs.’! — 
a mere nonentity, in fact, remembered only on certain convenient 
-occasions.” 

Myra was slow in joining them, and the anxious hostess, to fill 
up the interval, regaled the traveler with choice fruits, chatting 
incessantly all the while, until losing patience, she sent the house 
maid, and finally went herself, for the purpose of hurrying that 
very dilatory young lady. 

When Jerome left home nothing was farther from his thoughts 
than seeing the girl whom he had found, on their last meeting, 
growing too dear to him; neither had he, in this conventional call, 
the remotest intention of precipitating himself into a declaration, 
14 


202 


MYRA. 


or of giving even an intimation of his sentiments toward her.. 
When the truth came home to him, he had very prudently resolved 
to avoid being too much in her society ; that is, to deny himself 
the pleasure of^visiting at her own home, which, under other circum- 
stances, he would have enjoyed greatly, until he had crushed the 
wild hopes that were fast taking possession of him. Not that 
he doubted his own heart, but having enlisted in the good cause,, 
with the zeal and self-immolation of a young convert, looked upon 
his own heart-beats as a secondary consideration, as conflicting 
with the great life-work which he believed himself called upon to 
perform. And in his righteous ardor, he fain would root out 
every selfish longing, and devote himself wholly and exclusively 
to the regeneration of mankind. Had he retained tins state of 
mind, had kept this heroic resolve, or heeded the warning which 
he preached unceasingly to his flock: “ Yield not to temptation,” 
it would have been well. We say had he done this, it might have 
saved both trouble and pain. But stumbling upon her so unex- 
pectedly, with several hours at his disposal, and pressed upon by 
his convivial friend, he could not abstain from feasting his eyes 
upon her face and his ears upon the music of her voice. 

As for Myra, she experienced neither pleasure nor exultation 
in the admiration awakened in the mind of the young divine. She 
w^as, so to speak, as the manes of Limbo, who, w^andering upon the 
border-lands of the lost, with lingering memories of departed hap- 
piness, and a vague consciousness of the horrors beyond, sink into- 
a reckless apathy, insensible alike to joy or suffering. She was 
hardly aware of her power, or that she beheld in this earnest, self- 
possessed man, one who was, like others had been before him^ 
without wish or intention on her part, a voluntary captive, until 
aroused from her stoicism by a laughing jest from Henrietta^ 
bringing the color to her cheek, succeeded by an embarrassing si- 
lence, as she met the thoughtful e3^es bent upon her in eager in- 
quiry. His prospective journey appeared to have come to an ab- 
rupt terminus, and the purpose for which he had set out aban- 
doned or postponed. He imagined himself, like Ulysses in Ca- 
lypso’s fairy isle, a spot he was reluctant to quit. He allowed 
the hour for his train to pass unheeded bj-, seeming in no- 
hurry to depart, and when he did, with a promise to take tea at 
the Cottage the ensuing day. 


IVY COTTAGE. A DREAM AND ITS SEQUEL. 


203 


All married persons are, as a natural consequence, inclined, 
more or less, to be match-makers: those who have drawn a ‘‘mat- 
rimonial blank,” on the principle of “misery loves company,” and 
those who have been more fortunate in their choice, actuated by 
a philanthropic desire to see the entire human race as happy as 
themselves. Our young friends belonged to the latter class. 
Jerome was a special favorite with both: they foresaw his re- 
jection, and sincerely lamented that fate should come between — in 
their opinion — two kindred souls, so fitted to make eacli other blest. 
The subject was discussed with unusual interest, the innocent cap- 
tor taken to task and “poor Jerome” deeply commiserated. 

The night, destined to be an eventful one, was cloudless and se- 
rene. 

“All was so still, so soft, in earth and air, 

You scarce would start to meet a spirit there.” 

But its chaste beauty was lost upon our unhappy heroine: she was 
nervous and uneasy, and with quickened senses, started at every 
sound that rent the stillness. She would have confidently affirmed 
that she had not slept, had she not dreamed — a dream often re- 
called in after years. She was at Violet Bank, and sat, with El- 
mer, upon the front portico. They were reconciled, and happy in 
the revival of love and confidence. They watched the setting 
sun, as in days agone, as it sunk lower and lower behind the 
golden rim. Twilight came stealing on, and they sat musing in 
the lengthening shadows : Hesperus anon blazed above the rainbow 
tints fast fading from the western sky, and as though in loving ap- 
proval, shed its amber light full upon them. She called his at- 
tention to its unwonted brightness — as typical of their future — 
when, as they looked, an angry cloud extinguished the heavenly 
taper ; the ether assumed a crimson hue, growing deeper and 
deeper, until it floated in the distance like a sea of blood. Terri- 
fied and wondering, she gazed upon the portentous phenomenon. 
Her eyes seemed fastened upon some far-away object, from which 
like a charmed bird, she found it impossible to remove them. A 
low sound, like an expiring groan, from her companion, disen- 
chanted her. He reeled as she turned, and ere she could catch his 
arm, fell dead beside her. Speechless with horror, she looked 
wildly about her. A hideous phantom stood in the back-ground; 


204 


MYRA. 


the figure was a man’s, but the voice a woman’s, as, with a fiend- 
ish laugh, it vanished in the darkness. Pale and trembling, she 
stooped to lift the prostrate form. Only the hard granite step met 
her icy touch; but more horrible than all, at her feet lay an open 
blade, shining, glittering in the shimmering starlight. In a trans- 
port of anguish, she was about to bury the w^eapon in her own 
heart, when an unseen hand snatched it from her, and a compas- 
sionate voice said, half in prayer, lialf in entreaty: “God pity 
you !” 

With a desperate struggle she awoke! screaming involuntarily 
at the apparition that stared back at her from the mirror opposite. 
She was standing before the bureau, her face ghastly white, her 
tangled tresses hanging loose and damp about her slioulders ; wliile 
in one hand she held a small jewel-case, grasping with the other 
the toy dagger, which had proved her curse. She slirank from 
herself as she realized the latter, and with a mighty effort, 
strove to shake off rhe horrible nightmare — to reason away her 
fears. But so weird was her appearance in the morning’s dusky 
light, so like the spectre of her dreams, that she stood for a mo- 
ment motionless and aghast! Apprehensive lest her screams 
should have alarmed the household, quaking in every limb, afraid 
of herself and her own thoughts, she crept back to bed like a 
frightened fawn, and hid her face in the coverlet to shut out the 
torturous vision. 

“I am sorry to have to leave you to-morrow,” she said to Hen- 
rietta, when Oscar had gone to his business. 

“Myra, you astonish me!” cried her hostess in unfeigned won- 
der, throwing aside the crewel work with which she was engaged, 
and looking at her with an expression of “What next?” “Will 
you be kind enough to enlighten me as to the cause of this sud- 
den determination? Have you found us so very tiresome that 
you must rush off in this fashion before you have been here three 
days?” 

“You are fully aware of my admiration for Ivy Cottage and 
all connected with it,” replied her visitor seriously; “but I think 
it best for me to return home. There ! don’t ask questions, please,’’ 
with a glance at the other’s puzzled face, “ because I can’t explain. 
And,” she went on hesitatingly, “ don’t you think you could ex- 
cuse me to Mr. Jerome this evening? I had rather not see him.” 


IVY COTTAGE. A DREAM AND ITS SEQUEL. 


205 


“ Well!’- exclaimed her impetuous friend, “this caps the cli- 
max! I never accused you of being a flirt before, Myra, but you 
do act so strangely! You are engaged to one man, and will not 
allow so much as his name to be mentioned in your hearing; and 
poor Jerome ! I hope you are not — well ! I think it is bad enough 
as it is, without torturing him with suspense.” 

“Your taunt is uncalled for and undeserved, Henrietta,” re- 
torted her companion hotly; “I never knowingly tampered with 
any man’s affections.” 

A darker scarlet dyed the velvet cheek, and Henrietta went 
about her duties with an injured air, leaving her guest deeply 
penitent for her hasty words. 

She might have disclaimed; might have passed it off as a joke, 
and laughed at the other’s solicitude for the supposed enamorado; 
but her truthful nature inveighed against this violation of veracity. 
Still, she might have submitted good-naturedly, have denied the 
false charge in tones less petulant, had it not been for the convic- 
tion that her friend’s conjectures were, in the present instance, 
correct, and the disagreeable consciousness that she must unwit- 
tingly have been in some way to blame; but above all, the unfor- 
tunate allusion to Fairfleld, which, taking into consideration the 
secret fears — fears of she knew not what — that fllled her thoughts, 
was by no means calculated to increase her amiability, and she 
naturally felt in no mood for jesting. A change had come over 
the quiet student as he thought he read his fate in the dreamy, 
far-away gaze of the drooping eyes. A revolution had taken 
place in thought and feeling. His noble resolutions had 
melted before that glance, as things lighter than air, revealing 
his own heart, showing it as' it was. He had mistaken her re- 
serve, had misinterpreted her confusion ; his own love had deceived 
him; for the flrst time he dared to hope! And with the glamour 
came other delusions, — life would be aimless without her; it 
might be months ere they could meet again; he could not leave 
her in uncertainty, agony of that exquisite kind that he could 
think of naught else! he was bewitched; he must know the 
truth ; he must know it now .^ — and with his characteristic earnest- 
ness and sincerity, lie had so looked and acted jand spoken, that 
argue as she might, she could not cheat herself with doubts as to 
his intentions. 


206 


MYRA. 


The evening meal, usually so pleasant, was embarrassing to all 
parties, more especially to Myra, who, in anticipating the wound 
she must inflict, like every true woman, suffered more in imagi- 
nation than did her victim in reality. 

The clock struck twelve, and still lie lingered. He had tried 
to make her understand that, next to his God, she was dearer to 
him than all else in heaven and earth. His intelligent face glowed 
with love and fervor, as, eager and impatient, he sat awaiting his 
doom. 

She had not time to reply; for at this painful crisis, Henrietta, 
pale and agitated, burst into the room, and without noticing her 
companion, whispered something, and led her away. 

She started and turned white, as she was met in the hall by 
Lioflel! He looked ten years older than when she had last seen 
him; his features elongated, with deep furrows about the mouth 
and eyes. Haggard, worn and grief-stricken, never was distress 
so stamped upon human countenance! 

She stepped back, as thougli she had seen a visitant from the 
spirit-world, and stared at him in blank amazement. ‘‘Mother! 
father!” she gasped, in a strange, scared tone, with an expression 
no less dazed and affrighted. 

“They are well, tliank heaven!” his voice sounded hollow and 
sepulchral, ending in a stifled groan. 

Tliere was another name upon her lips — a name she could not 
articulate. She trembled, tottered, shrank, and raised her arm 
as though to ward off a blow, at the same time riveting upon him 
a look so wild, so questioning, so imploring, as burnt itself in his 
very soul, and demanded a reply. 

The strong man quailed beneath her gaze. He, who had never 
known fear, sickened at the thought of his cruel task and cowered 
at the dumb anguish of the statuesque figure before him. Ruth- 
less fate! to liave imposed upon him — of all others — the mourn- 
ful duty which others shirked! And yet, he must act; she must 
know; he dare not meet that look, which said as plainly as look 
could say : “ Speak.” He came nearer and took her hand ; kindly 
and gently he drew her to a seat. “Myra!” he said with an ef- 
fort, “I have sad news for you.” 

She looked up; her eyes filled; her lips parted, quivered, as she 
waited in breathless anxiety for what he might have to impart. 


A FATAL EENCOUNTEE. SAVED FEOM HEESELF. 


207 


“Myra!” he began again, anxious to have it over, still longing 
to put it off; fearing to seem abrupt, yet dreading suspense; he 
hesitated, lingered over her name, as though gathering courage to 
go on. “Myra! — one who is dear to us both — our friend — ” his 
voice trembled; “Elmer — ” he faltered; “Elmer — ” he could 
get no further; his tongue seemed palsied. He tried to repeat 
it, and broke down in the effort; he could say no more. Why 
should he, when her own heart whispered the one awful word he 
could not bring himself to utter? 

Her face was ashen white; her hands were icy cold. Hot a 
word, not a syllable, not a sound escaped her. Like a blasted lily, 
she sank fainting at his feet. 


CHAPTER XXII. 


A FATAL EENCOUNTEE. —SAVED FEOM HEESELF. 


On Connait l’ami au Besoin. 



LMER kne-w nothing of Myra’s departure until he received 


J J the package a few hours later. There was no need to read 
the accompanying note to tell him its contents, yet it was with 
feverish haste that he scanned the blotted sheet. 

“ Had I ever suspected the cause of your indifference, that it 
w’as honor alone that bound you ; had I ever imagined myself in 
the w^ay of your winning the woman you love, the friend as false 
as yourself, the obstacle would have been at once removed. You 
should have been free, believe me; free to follow the dictates of 
your deceitful heart. Blind dupe that I was! to have held invi- 
olable the promise which I now revoke. 1 have seen and heard; 
it is enough. Attempt no explanation; I do not wish it, and will 
not hear it. One only request I have to make; it is, that you 
will never again thrust yourself across my path. I leave home 
to this end, in order that you may leave ere my return. May 
God in his mercy deal with you more leniently than you deserve! 
Henceforth and forever — Farewell!” 

He locked himself in his room, where he remained all day, eat- 
ing nothing, and admitting no one. It was all a mystery, a horrid 


208 


MYRA. 


mystery, a mystery he could not fathom. ^^His indifierence, bound 
alone by honor, the woman he loved, false friend — false as him- 
self, he false? his deceitful heart, she had seen and heard. She 
had seen and heard what f What did she, what could she, mean ?’^ 
Oh the confused thoughts that surged through his brain ! Holy 
powers !” how his head whirled until he staggered under his per- 
plexity ! 

He paced the room in agitation. “‘Attempt no explanation;’ 
he would. ‘I do not wish it, and will not hear it;’ she should. 
What ? he dishonorable ? he would vindicate that honor, ay, though 
it cost his heart’s best blood. ‘ He must never thrust himself again 
across her path;’ she should be obeyed; she should never be com- 
pelled to look upon a face that had become obnoxious to her. 
Broad seas should divide them; he would drag out his remaining 
years in lonely exile, until a merciful Providence should call him 
from a life which had now no charms for him. ‘May God in his 
mercy deal with you more leniently than you deserve!’ Hid he 
deserve this? ‘Henceforth and forever — Farewell !’ it should be 
as she had said: Farewell! and farewell forever!” 

He did not go on the morrow, as he had intended, but lingered, 
why, or for what, he knew not, except tliat it was liard to tear 
himself from a spot which she had made so bright, and which, 
though all was lost, possessed for him a fascination he could not 
explain. 

Lionel had been a silent, but by no means an indifferent spec- 
tator. He guessed the truth at once; and as he sat alone to-night, 
his thoughts went back to his own youth, with its hopes and dis- 
appointments, and later, to that other dream, which had ended, 
like the first, in nothing. His heart yearned toward the unhapp}^ 
lover, who, ardent and sensitive, was less fitted to cope with sorrow 
and with whom no one could sympathize better than himself. It 
was time to interfere, he thought, and with this conviction he 
sought his lodgings. Gaining admittance with some difficulty,, 
he found him haggard and miserable indeed, brooding in secret 
over wounded love and outraged honor, ungrateful for his com- 
pany, annoyed at his presence, evading inquiry, taciturn almost 
to rudeness, yet more gloomy than angry, until moved by the 
evident solicitude and sympathy of the other, he was at length, 
drawn into a confession. 


A FATAL EENCOUNTER. SAVED FROM HERSELF. 209 '' 

At this juncture there came a low tap at the door, answered by a 
petulant “ Come in,” when what was their surprise to behold in the 
intruders, McLyons and a couple of select friends, who had fallen, 
like their more susceptible sisters, victims to his witchery. Fair- 
field, haughty to the last degree, but to keep within bounds of 
politeness, bowed distantly and offered seats. 

“jTliank you,” said the former, with an insolent drawl and signi- 
ficant smile; “I merely called on a matter of business — a delicate 
affair, by the way — but hope you will excuse, seeing the motivo 
is pure. I understand — that is, aw — I have reasotis to suppose 
that you are the victim of a hopeless attachment for Miss Marston, 
and to prove that I bear no malice on old scores, would like to do 
you a good turn by alleviating, if possible, the pangs of a fellow- 
sufferer. The girl is a fiirt, a despicable flirt, and not an accom- 
plished one at that. She tried to play the same game on me, and 
I thought I would just show you these,” throwing upon the table 
an envelope, from which slipped a photograph, “and let you, 
judge — aw — ” He was not allowed to complete the sentence. 

Elmer’s eyes were no longer black ; they were balls of livid 
flame. He was no longer handsome; his features were distorted 
out of all resemblance to himself. He did not stop to inquire 
through what means he had obtained the articles in his possession. 
It did not occur to him that the picture might possibly have been 
one she had given Florence. He only saw the penmanship — it 
was hers^ and Myra’s familiar physiognomy smiling back at him^ 
Quicker than thought, with one distracted yell, the impetus of a 
maniac and the strength of a Titan, he leaped upon his assailant 
and clutched his throat with an iron grip. In another instant Mc- 
Lyons must have ceased breathing. The witnesses rushed forward 
to separate them ; but ere they did, his grasp relaxed, the wild glare 
faded from his eyes, the expression softened, and he would have 
fallen had not Lionel caught him in his arms. A crimson stream 
flowed from his side. Elmer had fainted ! Medical aid was in- 
stantly summoned, but all efforts to stanch the wound were vain. 
Death, at last, claimed its own. When, in the general excitement 
and confusion, their thoughts turned again upon the assassin, he 
was not to be found. The villain had fled ! 

Lionel refused to quit the bedside of the dying man, but 
watched him tenderly and faithfully, like an affectionate brother.. 


^10 


MYEA. 


For several hours the spirit wrestled with the clay, but only a few 
lucid moments were granted liim, in which to make his last be- 
hest. “Give her that,” he said, indicating the half-operi package, 
whose contents lay strewn about the table, “ask her to fulfil my 
trust — she will understand — and — and — ” his breath came thick 
and short, “tell her — tell her — I forgive her all!” His voice 
•ended in a whisper. 

“The soul, too soft its ills to bear, 

Had left our mortal hemisphere. 

And sought, in better world, the meed 
To blameless life by Heaven decreed.” 

A week later Lionel was riding over the road between Yiolet 

Bank and B , when, upon approaching the bridge, he thought 

he caught sight of something a little way down the river, like a 
white dress, fluttering in the breeze. It was near midnight, no moon 
was visible, and the stars were chary of their sheen. He reined 
in his horse and looked again. A female figure was plainly trace- 
able against the dark background. He dismounted, tied his steed, 
and crept cautiously toward her, lest he might startle the som- 
nambulist in her nocturnal meander. She was hard upon the wa- 
ter’s edge, and he was now within three feet of her. A wild fear 
*came over him and his heart throbbed violently, as, throwing back 
her head to shake out its wealth of ringlets, he recognized the 
features in the pale starlight. Her hands were clasped a moment, 
as though in prayer; then a plunge, and she was seen no more. 
He had anticipated her suicidal intent, and leaping in after her, 
lifted the dripping form, shook her, chafed her liands, and did 
what he could to call back the life she so little valued. 

Presently the large eyes opened wide, and resting them upon 
his face, she gazed at him long and earnestly. A glad smile rip- 
pled over the delicate lineaments. “ Ah I Elmer,” she said softly, 
“I thought I would find you here. They told me you were dead. 
I said it was all a horrible dream, a hideous mockery. I knew 
you could not die; heroes never die. I thought I should find you 
here; you always loved the river — you loved the daffodils and 
water-lilies. I came to gather a posy for you. But why did you 
leave me, Elmer? Wh}^ were you away so long? How dreary 
the years have been since you left me I And now you are old 


A FATAL RENCOUNTER. SAVED FROM HERSELF 


211 


■and I am old. But you will never leave me again ? Promise that 
you won’t!” 

“Myra!” he said, coaxingly, “Myra! what are you saying? 
How came you here ? Let me take you home!” 

His voice recalled her. Startled and wondering, she shrunk 
from him, raised herself and sat upright, staring at him question- 
ingl3L “Who is this? Where am I?” putting her hand to her 
head, in a dazed way. “Oh! I remember!” in piteous accents. 
Tlien, resting her head upon her hand, she remained silent for 
■some minutes, as though lost in thought. “Lionel!” she said, at 
length, “why did you stop me? It was unkind.” 

“Myra! Myra! 3’ou do not know what you are saying. This 
is neither the place nor the hour for you to be alone. Come! 1 
will take ^mu home.” 

“ Home !” reproaclifully, “ I was going home, but you would 
not let me.” 

“Well, we will go now;” willing to humor the whim. 

“ Ah! \’ou do not know what I mean.” A strange light beamed 
from those wondrous eyes ; a new beauty overspread the mobile 
features, unlike anything he had ever seen there before, angelic 
in its purity, as, lifting her finger reverently upward, there came 
R subdued whisper: “my home is there.” 

Lionel wrung his hands in anguish. “Myra,'come! you must 
not stay here. The night air is chill. You will take cold. You 
must ride my horse. Let me help you in the saddle. I will walk 
and keep near you.” 

She gazed at him vacantly. Then she laughed foolishly. Sud- 
denly she stopped and listened, as though to catch some far-off 
sound. “ Isn’t that music entrancing?” she exclaimed, in a rap- 
ture of delight. The hazel orbs twinkled mischievously: “No,” 
she said, archly, “I can’t sing for you: I shall sing for 
Elmer.” 

The strong man groaned aloud. Myra was insane! 

It was midwinter when Myra awoke to consciousness and 
reason. But whose house was this? Where was she? This was 
her own room, and yet it was not. These were her books, her 
pictures, her fauteuil\ and yet, there was a certain strangeness she 
could not understand. And these faces at the bedside — whose were 


212 


MYEA. 


they? That aged and placid countenance — whose was it? Ah! 
Mrs. Harrison. Dear, kind old lady! How thoughtful in her to 
visit her little friend ! But that other? — whose was it? Familiar, 
yet not easily located. What? Could it be? Miss Ray, her be- 
loved instructress! why was here? And where the tender 
mother, upon whose loving arm she had pillowed her aching head 
and sobbed out her infant sorrows? and the proud, fond lather? 
Why had they forsaken her in this, her unsupportable hour of 
grief and suffering ? 

The common story. Brief, simple, mournful epitome of terres- 
trial instability ! The stroke had proved too fell for the gentle 
mother. The mental shock had made war upon the physical con- 
stitution, and the inherent disease, so long inactive, now rapidly 
developed in its most malignant form, hastening the troubled soul 
prematurely into eternity. “Troubles never come singly.” This 
is an old saying, but one which will be trite only when man is ex- 
tinct. Through inattention to business, speculations had failed, 
property had fallen, and the stricken father stood by a lonely 
hearth — a ruined man ! His wealth all gone, his idolized wife 
snatched from his very arms, his child insane, with penury staring 
him in the face, shaken as he was, it was not surprising that the 
illness, brought on by grief and anxious watching, soon laid him 
asleep by the companion of his earthly pilgrimage. The paternal 
mansion had passed into the hands of strangers, the familiar 
trifles which she now saw having been saved by Lionel from the 
general wreck. Sic transit^ etc. ! 

Myra’s insanity had been only temporary, but the exposure con- 
sequent upon her midnight ramble had occasioned severe illness,, 
which, in her present distempered state of mind, had ended in 
brain fever, from which it seemed she would never rally. Miss 
Ray, on hearing of her many and sad afflictions, with an abiding 
affection for her former pupil — now doubly dear through her con- 
nection with her young kinsman — had hastened to her side, and 
tended her not less faithfully than when, on a previous occasion,, 
she had fallen sick, far from home and friends. They had thought 
it best to remove her from such harrowing scenes. Hence the 
reason for finding herself not at Yiolet Bank, but at Mrs. Harri- 
son’s. It w^as a distressing, a cruel duty to tell her this, and howr 
it was accomplished would be difiicult to tell. 


A FATAL RENCOUNTER. SAVED FROM HERSELF. 


213 


Weep orphan! weep! Weep till your tears are brine; weep 
yourself, like Niobe, to stone, or into tear-distilling trees, like 
Pbaetlion’s sisters. Tear out your eyes, like Priam’s queen ; you 
cannot bring the dead to life; you cannot undo the irrevocable 
past. Long and loudly may you cry; “Let Myra die, since all 
that she held dear has ceased to be!” Your cry is vain; Azrael 
is a fastidious sprite; he turns with scorn and high disdain from 
the lowly wretch, and seeks rather the Iiappy, gifted and beloved. 
Grief is too pure, too sacred a thing to he looked upon by pro- 
fane or unsympathetic e3^es, and so, dear reader, we will draw the 
curtain and leave her to her sorrow, while we look after tlie lesser 
dramatis personoe of our humble story. 

Friendship is of two kinds: one a summer flower, 

“ Whose flattering leaves, that shadow’d us in 
Our prosperity, with the least gust drop off 
In th’ autumn of adversity !” 

Tlie other, like a hardy evergreen, is never so fresh or beautiful 
as when, in desolate wastes of snow and ice, it stands solitary 
and alone, spreading its branches proudly heavenward. It was to 
the former that the poet alluded when he said: 

“And what is friendship but a name, 

A charm, that lulls to sleep ; 

A shade that follows wealth or fame, 

And leaves the wretch to weep.” 

The latter, like a precious gem, is more priceless for its rarity. 

Where were the crowds that thronged the rich man’s house, 
partook of the rich man’s hospitality, and offered adulation to the 
rich man’s daughter ? Where were they ? Gone, like a fleeting 
fancy ! gone, like tlie phantasmagoria of a shifting dream ! Old 
acquaintances looked with stony eyes and inw^ard exultation upon 
the downfall of this once haughty spirit, while the less discreet, 
whom policy had hitherto restrained, gloated, like meagre vultures, 
over her calamities. All the secret envy and suppressed malice 
was now poured in pitiless siiowers upon the innocent head of the 
penniless orphan. Well for her that in those dark days there 
were a few noble souls ever near to defend and soothe. 

It is an old, hackneyed, but a well substantiated fact, and one 
which cannot be too often cited — let a pauper steal a pittance 


214 : 


MYRA. 


to prevent starvation, he is railed at and despised; let a nabob 
default for millions or commit capital crime, he is a gentleman 
and a hero. McLyons had been brought to justice, tried and ac- 
quitted. A convict? No! — Astraea had indeed ascended ! With 
men a lion, with women something more, ambrosian collations 
furnished his prison banquet, rare exotics decked his prison toilet. 
Surely even a villain must sicken with disgust at the gross enco- 
miums lavished upon him. Women! beware. 

Mother! would you see that innocent babe, whose dimpled arms 
are clasped about your neck, to whose cherub lips you cling in 
speechless fondness; would you see that child, the darling of your 
existence, a bandit or a murderer? or if it be a daughter, would 
you see that child wedded to a knave ? Ah ! clasp it closer to 
your heart and ask yourself the question. Remember that tho 
children of our first mother suffered for her folly. 

Look, sister, upon that generous, high-minded brother, whose- 
joys and sorrows you have shared since infancy, the hope and 
comfort of aged parents. Would you see his frank, youthful 
brow clouded by despair, his native honor tainted with infamy or 
soiled with crime ? 

And you, wife ! would you see that loving husband, whose hap- 
piness is, or ought to be, dearer than your own, racked by remorse,, 
a disgrace to his children and his wife; would you see him plunged 
in ruin, wretched in life, miserable in death, hurled into perdition,, 
and by you? Oh! then, beware. God pity him who trusts his 
happiness to the fidelity of such an one ! 

Oh, woman ! “guardian of your nation’s honor,” how little you 
realize the responsibility of your office ! It lies with you to wreck 
or save — like clay in the hands of the potter, it is for you to 
mould unto honor or dishonor, for weal or woe, knaves or heroes!. 
Which shall it be ? 

So long as women, “ Heav’n’s last best gift,” decorate the graves 
of criminals,* treasure their mementoes and extol their valor ; so 
long as they countenance, nay, encourage vice, falsehood and cor- 
ruption will flourish in our land. When our women are all true^ 
then will the dove fold her wings over the home of the Olive and 
our own Columbia will be a new Arcadia. She who is guilty of 
the former is not a woman. False to her father, false to her 
*^]SroTE. — An allusion to the James Brothers. 


A FATAL RENCOUNTER. 8AVED FROM HERSELF. 


215 


brother, false to her husband, false to her child, a traitor to her 
sex, and a blasphemer of her God, — woman is a holy name, pollute 
it not ! — call her, rather, a fiend incarnate ! 

Nothing had been heard from Florence since her departure. 
Did you expect it ? She had been the friend of Miss Marston, 
the heiress; Myra Marston, the dependent, was unknown to. her. 
Besides, had it been otherwise, there would have been no need to 
perpetuate the intimacy. She had achieved her end; since she 
had been cheated of the man she loved, tit for tat, she had only 
retaliated. She had spent her vengeance, and secured a rich hus- 
band in theFargain, which being accomplished, she felt no further 
concern about her, and she might go — well! no matter where, so 
long as she conflicted witli no plans of hers. 

“I always knew that girl was fast,” said Henry Sims to an ap- 
plauding audience; “I would have married Florence Stillbury 
but for her. She influenced her against me, just as she might 
entrap me herself. But pshaw I she wasn’t going to wheedle me. 
Don’t you remember that time she asked me to dance?” 

tell you what, gentlemen,” chimed in Eodolphus, like the 
low braggart that he was, “in future I shall consider it an insult to 
be teased about that girl. I’ll liave you to understand that I’ll not 
have my name coupled with a pauper’s. All I wisli is, that I had 
back the money I’ve spent on her.” 

Aunt Jemima, whose affection for her “young mistis” had 
never wavered, chanced to overhear these characteristic remarks, 
and in her righteous ire, hastened to Lionel with a torrent of in- 
vectives against “dem low-lived white boys.” A cutting, and 
public rebuke for the former, and a threatened castigation for the 
latter, served to silence both effectually. 

The Misses Philips w^ere furnished with gossip for months to 
come; but Mrs. Fudge, poor lady! had, by some fatality, been off 
on a visit (she was fond of visiting) during the correspondence, in 
consequence of which, the duties of the office had devolved, for 
the time, upon her liege lord, who had failed to report the cir- 
cumstance. This was an offence for which she could never for- 
give him, this slur upon her sagacity, this reflection on her om- 
niscience. She took said Fudge to task for his remissness, be- 
rating him energetically, interspersing her tirade with hints of a 


216 


MYKA. 


divorce suit, when, her wrath having reached its acme, an audible 
snore causing her to turn lier eves in the direction from whence 
the sound proceeded, she discovered that oscitant individual peace- 
fully reclining in the arms of Morpheus ; whereupon, his maltreated 
spouse went into hysterics, and vowed she would take strychnine, 
declaring that there was no satisfaction in life any way, and that 
her husband had no respect for her. 

Henrietta and Oscar had grieved as for a sister. They were com- 
municated with daily; the former had come once, and the latter 
thrice, to ascertain in person the real condition of the invalid. 
Jerome had done what he could; he had given his sympathy and 
his prayers. 

Then followed weary weeks of convalescence, and the orphan 
was constrained to turn her thoughts once more to a dreary, aim- 
less future. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

THE NEW LIFE. 

A S Myra lay, day after day, upon her downy couch, with no 
actual pain, only weak, oh ! so weak and despondent, she 
thought that Miss Ray looked more like a good angel than ever; 
she moved about the room so softly, shook her pillow so gently, 
-and stroked her brow so tenderly. She ventured to say so one 
day, whereupon, the self-installed nurse only kissed the pale cheek 
of the little sufferer, and with a half-murmured: “Poor little 
wight!” bent lower over the embroidered rose-buds fast swelling 
beneath her nimble fingers. Lionel’s unobtrusive sympathy was 
equally appreciated ; still the nights seemed endless, and the long, 
bright, monotonous days not less cheerless to the bereaved orphan. 
She tried hard to get well, not that there was anything worth liv- 
ing for, she told lierself, but she had been so troublesome already, 
and could not bear to be a burden to the few friends who had been 
spared to her. She had grown very silent, very thoughtful now, 
for with returning strength had come the stern realization that 
she was entirely alone in the world, with no near relative upon 


THE NEW LIFE. 


217 


whom she could depend for assistance or advice, with sorrow for 
her companion and poverty for her portion ; that she would have 
in future no income save that derived from her own exertions; that 
she was only eighteen, and would, in all probability, live many 
years; that it was incumbent upon her to earn her own sustenance; 
she must get employment of some kind. True, Lionel had begged 
a brother’s prerogative in providing for lier wants, but while she 
was moved by his kindness, her woman's soul revolted at the bare 
suggestion. Oscar and Henrietta had likewise insisted that she 
should make theirs hers, until she should find a more congenial 
home; but she had no claims upon their bounty, hence, all such 
eleemosynary tenders were, although feelingly, stoutly declined, 
while her active brain was busy in devising plans for that deso- 
late future, which she now looked upon as a vast and trackless 
desert, with no cooling fount, no refreshing oasis, and over which 
she must journey without guide or compass. She thought with 
loving gratitude of the dead father, who had left her, though pen- 
niless, not utterly destitute. She still had her talents and educa- 
tion ; with these she could never be a mean dependent. She would 
never disgrace his name; though poor, his child should never be 
a beggar. 

She opened her mind to Miss Ray, who commended her noble 
resolve, and promised to aid her in finding a situation. Fortu-^ 
nately she had a cousin in Texas, Edward Early, M. D., who was 
just then in need of a governess, and had asked her to recom- 
mend some one to fill the vacancy. To him she would send her. 
It.wasalong way off, she said, but Edward Early was a good 
man and a gentleman, and in his charge she would feel satisfied 
to intrust her. 

It was touching to witness lier struggles to bear up under her 
afflictions, to seem hopeful for the sake of those to whom she 
owed so much; but these temporary gleams were invariably suc- 
ceeded by deeper despondency, and the assumed cheerfulness 
ended in fresh bursts of emotion. Grief alone rarely kills, but 
it shatters the physical and unnerves the mental systems; and 
though youth at last triumphed, it was not until the violets 
filled with their delicate odors the atmosphere of her old home, 
that she was sufficiently restored to embark upon the new and un- 
promising life before her. It was a sad day when she visited for 
15 


218 


MYRA. 


the last time those new-made graves, and watered their tender 
verdure with briny tears. No one dared obtrude upon the sacred- 
ness of that hour, but Myra imagined that the willow boughs- 
drooped lower, that the zephyrs breathed a sympathetic sigh, and 
that the violets were paler and less fragrant than of yore^ as 
though they knew and shared her sorrow. 

Few noticed the little black-robed figure nestling upon the last 
seat of the crowded car like a timid fledgling; but those who did, 
saw a very white, very pensive little face, with a pair of large, 
slumberous eyes, to which the wan cheek imparted supernatural 
lustre. There was something unusually attractive in that youth- 
ful countenance, character in every outline, gentle birth and intel- 
lectual . grace in every fold of the simple attire. There was a 
strange wistfulness in the far-away look that could not fail to* 
strike even a careless observer, and inspire all who remarked it 
with awe, if not pity. But it was only an occasional glance that 
she vouchsafed her fellow-passengers, as now and then, by some- 
unconscious movement, the sable veil fell back, revealing, for a 
moment, the chaste lineaments of the fair mourner. You would 
hardly have believed her conscious of aught around lier, had she 
not shrunk involuntarily whenever any one approached, as though 
she would avoid the cold stare of curious eyes. She addressed 
no one, and no one addressed her; her discursive thoughts were- 
wandering amid other scenes. It was with a heavy heart that she- 
had bidden adieu to her faithful friends, and turned her back upon 
the familiar haunts around which memory still fondly hovered. 
‘‘And yet,” she asked herself, “why should I care to stay?” Bea- 
son could find no answer. Then she drifted on into that uncer- 
tain future, wondering what it would be like, what new trials it 
would bring to her, for surely it could have in store little else — 
trouble being her only inlieritance. But had not the phials of 
tribulation been emptied for her ? What calamity could Heaven 
send that could be compared with those already heaped upon her? 
Oh that she might lift the veil ! what a comfort it would be to 
feel that some straggling beam might even yet penetrate the 
noisome fogs that clouded her pathway. 

On the second evening of her westward journey, there was, 
during a brief stoppage, an unusual commotion among the pas- 
sengers to make way for a bridal party. Aroused from her half 


THE NEW LIFE. 


219 


slumber, Myra looked with the rest, and as couple after couple 
filed by, awaited listlessly the entrance of the distinguished pair. 
She shuddered and clutched the cushion convulsively, so great 
was her astonishment (and yet she had no reason to be astonished 
either, only the apparition was so unexpected) as lier false friend 
and her confederate, the villainous assassin, swept majestically 
past. Florence, she thought, surpassed herself; she had never 
seen her look so witchingly beautiful. Meanwhile, the victim of 
her treachery was propounding the mental query: ‘‘Can she 
enjoy this hollow pageantry purchased at such a cost?” and then 
a sigh, half bitter, half contemptuous: “Oh that the heart were as 
pure as the outward seeming!” 

They sat where the light beamed full upon their faces. Re- 
covering from the shock, she raised her veil, and fastened a pierc- 
ing gaze upon them. The groom was elegant and uxorious, the 
bride radiant and charmingly vivacious. In the midst of their 
playful badinage, the latter, chancing to cast her eyes in that di- 
rection, saw Banquo’s ghost (personated in the present instance 
by her forsaken friend) rise mockingly from out the dark corner. 
The face looked whiter, and the eyes dilated to twice their natural 
size in the morbid imagination of a guilty conscience. A sudden 
change came over her; she might have been seized with an ague 
from the shiver that ran through her frame, and though she 
laughed lightly, her manner was constrained, and she was unable 
to resume her former gayety. The husband of an hour might 
have inquired if she had seen a spirit; she had seen worse, for 

‘‘ What spectre can the charnel send 
So dreadful as an injur’d friend ?” 

Myra found many trials and relief too in her new position. It 
proved a blessing in one particular at least ; it demanded all her 
time, thoughts and energies, and left the mind no leisure to prey 
upon the past. The fiery ordeal through which she had just 
passed had taught her some hard but profitable lessons, not the 
least of which were submission and humility. The crucible of 
sorrow had purged her character of its dross; pride had taken 
wing under the rod of the Chastener, and the old hauteur had 
been superseded by timidity, a soft habitual sadness. With the 
recollection of her dependence ever present with her, she entered 


220 


MYRA. 


upon her duties with conscientious zeal, resolving, with divine 
help, to do her duty in that state of life unto which it had pleased 
God to call her. 

Dr. Early’s residence was on tlie outskirts of a small hamlet, 
the society of which was, for the most part, coarse and unculti- 
vated, and often odious to the. native refinement of the little 
stranger. For himself, Miss Ray had not overlauded him. In a 
word, he was a geyitleman^ intelligent, considerate and liberal. 
With the wife, a kind motherly woman, with ever a place in her 
large heart for the afflicted and oppressed, and Rose and Annie, 
two amiable, sprightly little girls, ready to bestow their wealth of 
childish affection upon their new teacher, tliey made an interest- 
ing family; and surely if there was peace for her on earth, it was 
to be found here. She well knew to whom she was indebted for 
the courtesies she now received, and with the additional stimulus 
of feeling herself respected and appreciated, she soon won the 
hearts of the entire household. These kindly benefactors inter- 
ested themselves actively in her behalf, and ere she had been 
many weeks under their roof, so numerous* were the demands for 
her services, that her school swelled to a goodly number, and she 
was compelled to turn away more than one would-be patron. 

With these promiscuous classes she was often doomed to disap- 
pointment and vexation. There were certain antiquated volumes 
from which they had gleaned their scanty store of rudimental 
knowledge, and they insisted that the education of their progeny 
should be conducted on the same obsolete system. In vain did 
she protest, arguing advancement and improvement. It was as 
chafl:" to the wind; they were educated, they had gotten through 
the world without worrying their brains with any of this ‘‘new- 
fangled nonsense,” and their children might do the same. Then 
there was Mrs. Highflyer, ^parvenu aristocrat, who thought her 
bullion was, or should be, a passport among the upper ten, and 
having conferred the inestimable honor of intrusting to her the 
primary education of her second daughter, looked down upon and 
patronized the little instructress, who tolerated her insolence, partly 
through contempt, but more for the sake of the pupil, who was 
modest and dutiful, altogether different from the supercilious 
sister and flaunting mother, and to whom she was sincerely at- 
tached. But the most novel and ludicrous incident in her varied 


THE NEW LIFE. 


221 


experience was that of an illiterate herdsman, who, having amassed 
considerable property, and ambitions for the advancement of his 
family, sent his two eldest promptly and regnlarl}^ until, after 
some three months or more, he stopped them suddenly, without 
warning, and with no apparent reason for his singular conduct. 
Lpon investigation, it was found that his dissatisfaction arose 
simply from the fact, that “that young thing had got a kink in 
her head about the world’s turning over.” 

“I tell you what it is,” he said, in relating the circumstance to 
a neighbor, “ I can’t afford to pay my hard earnings to have my 
child’en learnt any sich humbugry. Why, don’t you know, sir,” 
waxing warm and vehement, “don’t you, don’t ^y^rybody, know 
that if the world turned over all the water would run out of my 
gum spring?” 

There was much to contend with, but there w'as a ray of con- 
solation in feeling that she was of some use to herself and others, 
that she was not a mere drone in the great, busy world; and she* 
found that in active, honest and conscientious labor, that most ef- 
fectual of all balms for the troubled heart, there vvas satisfaction 
if not content. 

“Yes,” soliloquized Myra, when she had been four years in her 
new home, “I have suffered much, but I have much to be thank- 
ful for.” And she had. Four years had wrought obvious changes 
in the pale, grief stricken girl who had brought her wan cheeks 
and wasted figure to the good Doctor’s Texas home; but she was 
still young and fair, although her beauty was of a more decided, 
more womanlj^ type than in the old days. The impetuous vi- 
vacity, the elastic spirit were gone, and you saw now a quiet, 
thoughtful, but not less engaging woman. Yes, she had much to 
be thankful for. Slie still had her old friends, from whom she 
often heard, and new ones had been raised up to her. She had 
done her part nobly* and well, and her humble labors had not been 
wholly unrequited. She had sown the seeds of kindness, and was 
reaping the golden harvest. The high ambition of early years 
had been crushed out by the intoxication of pleasure and the 
scourge of affliction ; she had won no laurels, but she had won 
what was better, she had won esteem. She had the respect 
of all who knew her, and the affection of her pupils, which was a 


222 


MYRA. 


boon not to be scorned by the thirsting heart of a portionless 
orphan; and right grateful she was for her good fortune in find- 
ing such a haven. 

Lionel had proved himself a worthy brother, and she began to 
think that she had never fully appreciated the true nobility of his 
character. She had thought much of him latel}^ ; whether it was 
the knowledge of his mother’s failing health, or the languor of 
early spring that recalled so vividly those balmy, cloudless, dreary, 
endless days four years back, when she was lonely, wretched, and 
they took her in; sick, and they nursed her; weary, and they held 
her up — she knew not; but in reviewing the past, it seemed that 
he had been her good genius — by some mysterious means, always 
on the spot to rescue her from peril. How she thanked him now 
for saving her from that bold, rash act that would have wrung the 
hearts of those fiiost dear, and blasted for her the joys of eternity. 
She had learned from him the highest and noblest of all lessons, 
the lesson of endurance. In this undemonstrative, uncomplain- 
ing, self-sacrificing man she was beginning to recognize the em- 
bodiment of true heroism ; and when she remembered his many 
kindnesses toward her and her loved ones, there arose from her 
woman’s soul a longing to atone. 

‘‘What is admiration?” she said aloud; “what is this thing 
which the world terms ‘popularity’? It is a deceitful, hollow 
cheat. Like a sweet, poisonous breeze, it fans the cheek, while it 
withers the heart, scorches the soul and warps the intellect; or, 
like the apple of the Asphalt Lake, beautiful from afar — pluck 
it, ’tis ashes within. Better to be loved by few, than flattered and 
mocked by many.” 

It was a glorious night, too glorious for slumber: her apart- 
ments were apart from those of the family, and she would disturb 
no one by her lonely vigil. She threw herself upon a low otto- 
man by the window, and sat studying the astral arch after her ac- 
customed fashion. She was soon launched upon the sea of long 
ago, an indulgence she not often allowed herself. She had tu- 
tored her thoughts to meet the iron-faced present, to peer some- 
times into the shadowy future, but called home the fugitives when 
they verged too near upon retrospection. But at moments like 
these, so softly, so silently they stole o’er her, that ere she was 
aware, she had glided out upon the fairy main. 


THE NEW LIFE. 


223 


The hall clock struck one. No matter; heart and soul were 
•awake; she could not sleep. Presently she got to searching over 
mementoes of former days, adding the last touch of reality to the 
scenes which reminiscence painted. Here were relics of childhood, 
of school days, but more than all, of tliat brief and checkered youth, 
oach wreathed in brightest garlands culled from memory’s bower. 
The quaint jewel case, a gift from the fond mother, was among 
the rest. She unclasped it lovingly. Here were sundry trinkets, 
each calling to mind some scene of mirth, some happy revel, and 
oach in turn apostrophized. Then came those sadder, sweeter 
remembrancers of tlie departed. 

A dainty locket, containing her parents’ pictures, was there. 
‘‘ Mother ! father!’ she exclaimed tearfully ; “how little I thought, 
when you gave me these, that they would so soon be all I would 
have to feed my orphan eyes upon, all I would have to caress ! Why 
did you leave your child ? or why did you not take lier with you 

Elmer’s, first gift was there. She lifted it reverently. “Ah, 
Elmer!” she went on regretfully, “little did you imagine, when 
boyish caprice prompted you to wear this ugly bauble, that it was 
prognostic of your doom; much less did you think, when you 
placed it in the hands of a frightened babe to hush its choking 
sobs, that you were furnishing her with a weapon with which to 
take yours in exchange for the life you had just saved. Strange 
and hard that Z should have been the blind agent through which 
your destiny was to be accomplished! What happiness might 
-have been ours had the Fates been less inimical!” 

The solitaire ring was there. “ Poor Miss Hay !” she sighed, ex- 
amining more closel}^ the brilliant gem. “What a lot has been 
hers! This, like the other, could tell a mournful tale. Would 
that I were spared my painful commission, for well I know that she 
would rather believe him dead than such as he now is. How 
shall I ever fulfil it? How am I to know when her wretched 
lover is called to his last account? Perhaps he is already dead. 
O ! that he repented before it was too late. Is there nothing then 
on eartli but crime, remorse, grief and tears? and yet, the world 
is not all bad. Why heeded we not his warning? how different 
it might have been ! Why must mortals doubt and suffer? But 
human nature is so frail, so suspicious, so distrustful, and yet so 
vcredulous. Like a storm-tossed vessel, beat about with the rest- 


224 : 


MYRA. 


less tide, driven from its track by angry gales, lured into whirl- 
pools by pleasant breezes, stranded upon shallows by the heaving 
billows, with a mirage of verdant isles always in view, yet never 
attainable. But what am I saying? Made we ourselves? Who 
am I that I should dictate ^to God ? It were better so, else it 
would never have been. And think not that I reproach you, 
Elmer, for was not I more blamable than you? and as deeply as 
I have mourned you, rather would I have it thus than to see upon 
your brow the mark of Cain, for he who takes the life of a fel- 
low-man is no less a fratricide than he. And tlie caitiff, thy 
murderer ! where is he ? Let the world shower her honors upon 
him, it cannot stay the phantom that dogs his steps. I^ay, worse; 
from the blood of every murdered man there arises a Nemesis, 
his own avenger ! Not, as with the phoenix, a reproduction of the 
living, but a pale spectre, a gory corse, that clasps his assassin 
in a cold embrace, and, like ‘The Old Man of the Sea,’ waking 
or sleeping, he is there, he cannot be shaken off. Well may his 
victim exclaim with tlie apostle: ‘O wretched man that I am! 
who shall deliver me from the body of this death?’ No, little 
souvenir!” referring to the former, ‘‘though to others unsightly,, 
to me you are sacred, a censer with which to waft on high my 
soul’s best offerings.” 

She went back to the window. “I wonder why we dream of 
the dead when it rains ? Is there at such times a peculiarity in 
the condition of the elements that brings them nearer? Is there 
then some subtile medium through which the spiritual can com- 
municate more directly with the intellectual being? I know not, 
only at midniglit tlie patter of each raindrop sounds like a whis- 
per from another sphere. 

“What is our little world? — a primary school to prepare our 
minds for deeper mysteries, — a mere atom ! less in infinity than 
an animalcule upon our tiny globe, and yet, how mortals dread to 
leave it ! Why should we fear death ? Do we not strive for im- 
provement here? Is there anything appalling in the idea of ad- 
vancement? Is there anything displeasing in the thought of cast- 
ing aside this clumsy mass of flesh, left untrammeled to cleave the 
ether and explore the universe, with eyes to see and minds to un- 
derstand? When our friends leave us below for foreiirn lauds, do 
we mourn them as lost, although there is no certainty of meeting 


THE NEW LIFE. 


225 - 


again? If, then, we have an indubitable assurance of meeting 
in those other realms, why should it bo more dreadful? In 
lite they are with us only when face to face; in the spiritual ex- 
istence they are with us always, watching, guarding, lest the loved 
ones here should forfeit their inheritance in that brighter kingdom.. 
Is not each ray of light from yon shining orbs the luminous track 
of some guardian spirit in its earthward flight? What means this 
ceaseless yearning for the supernal, unless it is that these minis- 
tering spirits feed the imagination, giving the young soul faint 
glimpes of its glories, in order that we may be purer, better, and 
by striving to do our parts more nobly here, attain higher happi- 
ness in the world beyond? Do we not rejoice over the promotion 
of those we love? Then, when we have every reason to believe 
them blest, why should we weep for them ? rather, why should we 
not weep for those who are left? Suppose the worm in its chrys- 
alis could know that its nice, cozy nest would be shattered, and it 
would be turned out in the cold, with no certain dwelling-place, 
but left to roam at will over what, in its insect eyes, would seem 
an immensity of space. But with what contempt must the gor- 
geous butterfly look back upon its former habitation, and recoil at 
the thought of being again confined within its narrow walls. Wha 
would live always in this vale of tears? Oh! happy spirits, dear 
in life, doubly dear in eternity, tell me which of yon bright isles 
you call your home!” 

She rose and paced the room thoughtfully. The clock struck 
three. She looked up, the disagreeable consciousness of a living 
presence was gradually taking possession of her, followed by sen- 
sations the reverse of pleasant. The house was built low upon 
the ground, with an eye to the destructive cyclones that sometimes 
swept over that district, and you could easily step from the win- 
dow upon terra fir ma, without injury or inconvenience; but that 
vicinage was remarkably peaceable ; they were never annoyed with 
burglars; she was not usually wanting in courage, and this pre- 
monitory alarm was new to her. Ashamed of her superstition, 
yet unable to shake it off, she resolved to satisfy herself. With 
this intent, she searched the apartment; the furniture and herself 
were the only occupants. The window was still open ; she looked 
out suspiciously; sleeping nature smiled back at her. Still she 
was not easy. 


“226 


MYRA. 


She sat down and set about reasoning away her apprehensions. 
She got a book and attempted to read, thinking thus to divert her 
thoughts. By an impulse she could not resist, she turned sud- 
denly, when lo ! a pair of e3’es peeping cautiously through the drawn 
curtain! Frightened now beyond expression, but with too much 
self-possession to scream, she extinguished the light, and stole 
•quietly from the room. She had hardly been absent two minutes, 
when she returned with the household at her heels. Upon enter- 
ing, all looked as she had left it, except that the eyes were gone, 
and not a breath stirred the stillness. Her first thoughts were 
for the jewel-case; she looked where she had left it — upon the 
foilet-table. It was not there. 


, CHAPTER XXIY. 

A TEST OF COURAGE AND FIDELITY. 

“ Man, while he loves, is never quite depraved ; 

And woman’s triumph, is a lover saved.” 

M yra was inconsolable for the loss of her treasures. In 
this new grief was severed the last tie that linked her to 
the past. Her heart bled afresh, and she seemed to live over 
■again all the soul-sickening despair, the wild desolation which a 
loving nature feels, on listening to the dull rattle of frozen clods 
over the last being upon whose affection kindred or friendship 
gave a lien. She had a peculiar reverence for these relics of 
former glories, these friends of happier days, each hallowed by 
some sweet, sacred memory. She had made confidants of them in 
her loneliness, communing with them as with living things, had 
"whispered into their deaf ears her hopes, longings and inward 
struggles, finding in their mute companionship comfort and en- 
couragement. No miser ever guarded his hoard more jealously; 
not that she valued them for their intrinsic worth, but as memen- 
toes of the loved and lost. She wept as for a dead friend, and 
^"ould not be comforted. 

The detectives were consulted, but to no purpose — with all 
.their skill and energy, their investigations led to nothing. The 


A TEST OF CPURAOE AND FIDELITY. 


227 . 


thief was evidently an expert, and had taken care to elude any 
effort to trace him. A month went by, with no news of the miss- 
ing jewels. 

She had abandoned all hope of their recovery, when an occur- 
rence of a singular and somewhat startling nature was destined to 
prove a crisis in her checkered career — a subtile link in fate’s mys- 
terious chain that was drawing her unconsciously on to the most 
important event of her eventful life, an event that was to solve 
for her the great problem of the future — that cheerless, dependent 
future she pictured for herself when age, sickness or some chance 
misfortune should incapacitate her for earning her own livelihood ; 
when the kind friends with whom she had found a second home 
would no longer need her services (a certainty not pleasant to 
think of), and she would be thrown again upon the world, home- 
less and penniless as before; an event that was to change mate- 
rially this dismal prospect; that was to clothe the barren waste in 
summer blossoms, and — to complete the emblem — soften the 
scorching glare into a mellow glow, and dispel the sultry heat with 
refreshing dews and odorous breezes; an event fraught with 
weighty consequences and grave responsibilities, to lead, let us 
trust, to happy issues. 

Upon going to the school-room one morning, more depressed 
than usual, the rustling, as of paper under her dress, on entering, 
<‘-aused her to turn a little aside, in order to shake it off, the 
grating noise jarring upon her sensitive ear, when, discovering it 
to be a soiled slip upon which was some indistinct writing, with a 
listless curiosity, she picked it up and eyed it suspiciously. It had 
not been there the evening before when slie had gone back after 
supper for a book she had neglected to take with her. There was 
no way for it to have gotten there but to have been pushed under 
the door — probably during the night. But by whom, and why ? 
Certainly by none of the children: they would hardly have 
thought of such a thing, and could have had no motive. The 
penmanship was strange to her, too — a fact that gave new interest 
,to the circumstance. It must have been intended for her eyes, it 
being her custom to be at her desk before the pupils assembled. 
All things considered, it had the appearance of design. What 
vcould it mean? More mysteries! 

Buch were the thoughts that sped through her brain as she 


228 


MYEA. 


stood gazing abstractedly at the illegible scrawl. Naturally ot a 
nervous, excitable temperament, the shock of her late adventure,, 
from which lier mind had never entirely recovered, tended toward 
making her doubly so. A sudden faintness came over her, and 
dropping upon the nearest seat, with a vague anticipation not un- 
mingled with fear, she set about deciphering the mysterious note, 
if such it could be called. The letters had, apparently, been 
traced by a masculine hand, notwithstanding they were cramped 
and blurred, as though written in haste or agitation. After sev- 
eral attempts she succeeded in making it out. It bore neither ad- 
dress nor signature, but said simply: 

‘‘By coming in person to the old sugar-house, your jewelry will 
be restored to you. Have no fears for your safety — no harm will 
befall you. I am alone, and could not do you injury if I would. 
I feel that my hours are numbered. Come quick, or it may be too 
late. You will not deny the humble petition of a dying sinner!” 

Myra was sorely wrought upon by the ominous wording of this 
singular communication. Was it a heartless prank perpetrated 
by some mischievous urchin, an insidious and direct attempt upon 
her own life, or was it true? If true, the writer could have been 
but one — and he was dying I It must have been he, and no one 
else, for what other robber was capable of magnanimity? Who 
else would not have claimed the reward offered for the restora- 
tion of the stolen jewels? But then, how was he to know any- 
thing of her? How was he to know that she was a portionless 
orphan, and that, in losing these, she had lost what she prized 
above anything in her possession? And even though he did,, 
would such knowledge be likely to touch the callous heart of one 
so schooled in depravity and wickedness? Ha! the ring! could 
it have fallen into his hands ? — why not ? — and he had recognized 
it, and the memories it summoned up — haunting memories of 
youth, and virtue and innocence — had been too much, and — lost 
as he was in vice and sin — he could not bring himself to plun- 
der one who, perhaps, had known and loved her upon whom he 
had bestowed his best affections when his soul was the home of 
honor, truth and purity. The love which, though it had worked 
his ruin, was the one attenuated thread upon which hung his lin- 
gering hopes of heaven. Yes, it was the ring; it must have been. 
Surely this was the w'orkings of a remorseful conscience: anxiety 


A TEST OF COURAGE AND FIDELITY. 


229 


to make amends, so far as in bis power lay, for tlie countless 
errors of the past. But why must she come in person ? If it 
%vere a^ she supposed, if her surmises as to the writer were cor- 
rect, if he felt compunction and wished to make reparation, why 
could he not deliver them to any one else? Why did he 
wish to see herf Probably with the hope of hearing something 
of the gentle being he had wronged and whose life lie liad 
blighted. What if her conjectures were right, and that he, the 
wretched wanderer, were really dying? — dying in his guilt and 
crime ! God avert his awful doom ! 

Fidelity, honor and affection plead in one scale, distrust and 
•apprehension weighed in the other. 

Her hands fell nerveless upon her lap. She sat for a long time 
staring blankly at tlie floor, unconscious of anything except that 
she was scared and excited ; that she liad been seized by some 
frightful incubus, as the words continued to repeat themselves in 
her ears, like voices of the dead, while visions of sin and suffering 
and death swam before her in fearful vividness. 

The entrance of lier pupils aroused her to action, reminding 
her that it Jacked only a few minutes of school time, and that 
whatever she intended doing must be decided upon at once. 

If not probable, it was possible. The incentive was powerful, 
and delay might lead to an omission for whicli she could never 
forgive lierself. 

In this dilemma, slie resolved to take her trouble to her kind 
employer. He received her with grave respect, listened to her re- 
cital with an expression that might have been amused, could he 
have made sport of the anxiety and perplexity of a sensitive, ex- 
cited girl, and scanned the paper which she handed him, in con- 
firmation of her words, rather skeptically. But the name, Martin 
Willis, was no stranger to his ears, nor was he prepared to listen 
unmoved to a narrative of which he was the subject. When she 
ventured to hint at her own conclusions, his countenance changed 
at her first mention of it — a look of surprise, then latent fire 
leaped to his eye, and a cold, stern expression settled upon his 
usually pleasing face. He was anything but a hard-hearted man, 
however, and as she proceeded with the story, giving it, as near as 
she could remember, word for word as Elmer had related it on 
that never-to-be-forgotten winter’s evening, his look softened, and 


230 


MYRA. 


ere its conclusion, she had enlisted both interest and pity in behalf 
of the unhappy castaway. He, like others, had believed him long 
since dead; but the dark confession, the accuracy of detail, the 
recklessness of despair, but above all, those passionate utterances 
of inconceivable anguish, the unspeakable bitterness of vain re- 
gret and self-abhorrence wrung from a tortured breast, and com- 
ing as it did from his own lips, gave it an authenticity he could 
not doubt. 

Myra declared herself willing to take the risk, and begged him 
to accompany her to the tryst. 

At this he hesitated. The place in question was a dilapidated 
building, about a mile from the village, where the rats and mice 
that found shelter in its ruins banqueted undisturbed, protracting 
the revel far into the night lo the plaintive note of the melan- 
choly whippoorwill. Standing in a sterile, isolated field, it made 
a desolate picture, with its crumbling walls and mossy roof^ the 
whole presenting an aspect of forlorn loneliness, that, to the su- 
perstitious mind, would naturally suggest thoughts of ghosts and 
goblins; and though it was not a deserted castle, and in no way 
striking or picturesque, it answered in every particular for a 
haunted house. Myra had often passed it in her walks, and had 
remarked more than once what an excellent retreat it would be 
for tramps and thieves. 

“My child,” said the kindly man, stroking her wavy hair, as 
another hand had been wont to do in years gone by, “lam afraid that 
your impulsive romantic disposition will get you into some serious 
trouble yet. What I have just heard is news to me, and I do not 
deny that I was affected by it. It throws a veil of charity over 
what has always seemed an inexplicably heinous and dastardly 
deed; but my fears are that you will allow sympathy and a 
strained sense of honor, which you believe conscience dictates, to 
outweigh discretion, and that in suffering yourself to be led too 
much by your feelings, you may be imposed upon by the artful 
machinations of wicked, designing people. What assurance have 
you that your conjectures are correct? for they are only conjec- 
tures you must remember. I think it much more probable that 
it is a trick, played either in malice or mischief. Perhaps — who 
knows but that it may be a ruse to seize your person ? Such 
things have been done, you know, and there are so many desper- 


A TEST OF COURAGE AND FIDELITY. 


231 


ate characters in the country now, who kidnap, not only children^ 
but beautiful young ladies. And even though it should turn out 
as you suppose, what claims has this outlaw upon you^ an utter 
stranger of whom he knows nothing, not even your name? What 
right has he to summon you to such a place and under such cir- 
cumstances? I would not have you shirk dutj^, but fidelity to 
your lover or your teacher does not demand that you should run 
rashly into an imprudence or risk your life.” 

‘‘ Wliich is not much,” broke in Myra, giving way and begin- 
ning to sob, hurt that any one should imagine her unwilling to- 
risk her life to keep a promise to one who had sacrificed his own 
for her. “Few would miss me were I to lose it,” moved by the 
tone and manner, that reminded her of her father. 

“It wounds and distresses me to hear you talk so,” he replied 
with reproachful tenderness, and a forced smile, between the pained 
and playful. “It would be a waste of words to tell you how dear 
you have grown to us, that we could scarcely love you more were 
you our own child. You must feel and know this; but I would 
also add, that you need never give yourself any uneasiness for 
the future so long as I or my wife or my children have a home. 
You have had much sorrow, I know; but you have many friends 
warm and true, who feel for you deeply in all your troubles and 
afflictions. The longer and darker the niglit, more welcome the 
dawning day, and I cannot help believing that there are brighter 
days in store for you. Only hope and wait; God, who is all-wise 
and just, will not sufier the upright and innocent to be long op- 
pressed.” 

Myra was greatly touched by these sincere and feelingly uttered 
expressions of affectionate regard and delicate generosity, and 
though the trickling tears still stole down the fiushed cheek, they 
were of gratitude rather than of grief. 

“As for your trinkets and the romantic burglar,” he continued 
in a more cheerful tone, “you may make yourself easy on that 
score. I intend to go myself and sift the matter to the bottom.” 

Myra was not so easily satisfied. Elmer, with his dying breath, 
had imposed this solemn, sacred duty upon her. How could she 
meet him in that other world, and tell him that he had been so 
soon forgotten, that she had disregarded his last request ? How 
could she bear his reproaches? 


:232 


MYKA. 


‘‘May I go with you?” she asked timidly. 

“If anything comes of it, you shall know in good time.” 

But the words of the note recurred to her with all their awful 
significance, tiieir force increasing as her chances of complying 
with them diminished: “I feel that ray hours are numbered ; come 
•quick or it may he too late. You will not deny the humble peti- 
tion of a dying sinner!” 

“Please — but why can’t I go now?” she persisted, with a slight 
tremor in her voice, and an anxious, pleading face upturned to the 
grave thoughtful one just above her. 

“My dear child,” began the fatherly doctor in gentle dissuasion, 
when meeting the earnest, wistful look, he broke off abruptly. 
“Well! well!” he said relentingly, “if you are in search of ad- 
venture, get your hat, and we will set off at once. I dare say it 
is only a hoax after all, and if there is any danger ahead, I can 
stand between you and harm.” 

To run for her hat and excuse herself from the school-room 
required but a minute, and she was back again before he had 
hardly missed her. 

Edward Early was no coward, but he deemed it more prudent 
to provide against possibilities, so arming himself with a loaded 
revolver, he declared himself at her service. 

The season had been forward, and vegetation w^as remarkably 
advanced for April. The soft grass and budding wild flowers 
scarcely bent beneath her tread, a sense of adventure lending 
buoyancy to her step and heightened color to her cheek, as Myra 
tripped away demurely by the side of her trusty protector, count- 
ing each moment an hour in her excitement and impatience. 

She felt her heart beginning to palpitate with dread and uncer- 
tainty as they neared their destination. A deep stillness per- 
vaded the scene. She stopped an instant and listened. A low 
twitter of birds from a distant tree seemed to mock her fears. 
Bhe threw an enquiring glance toward her companion. 

“Never turn back in sight of tlie goal,” he said, answering her 
look, determined that, having come thus far, she should not re- 
turn in doubt. 

They had reacthed the threshold, when a sound, as of a stifled 
groan, was borne to them. Myra’s cheek paled as she paused in- 
voluntarily, and her escort felt suddenly ashamed of his precautions. 


A TEST OF COUEAGE AND FIDELITY. 


233 


They proceeded in silence, and guided by the heavy breathing, 
•as of one in extreme pain, which was now quite audible, and which 
issued from a small room at the opposite end of the tottering 
structure, they pushed gently against the closed door, whose rust}; 
hinges made a fearful creaking as it yielded to the pressure. 

Myra had kept close behind her convoy, but now instinctively 
held back that he might enter alone, awaiting a sign to follow. 

After what seemed to her a great while, but which was, in re- 
ality, a few seconds only, he came to the door and beckoned her 
in. Despite expectation, she started and shrank back at the sight 
which met her wondering eyes. Upon a small pile of musty 
straw in the farther corner was stretched, full length, the figure 
of a man, who though old for his years, had that in his face (a 
face which, notwithstanding it was now wan and sunken, must 
once have been exceedingly handsome) which bespoke a high 
spirit and gentle birth. 

The noise aroused him from his stupor. The eyes opened 
■slowly; dark penetrating eyes, lit with a restless, feverish light. 
A strange eagerness came into them as they rested upon the awe- 
stricken girl who stood at the side of his rude couch. 

“It was good of you to come,” he said feebly; “I feared you 
would not — feared you would not understand — feared it would be 
too late.” 

His breathing was labored and utterance painful. His failing 
strength seemed spent with the effort those few words had cost 
him ; the heavy lids fell again, and he remained for a long time 
apparently lifeless. 

The earnest gaze and mournfully subdued tones pierced Myra’s 
inmost soul. Pier jewels. Miss Hay, Elmer, all were forgotten; 
she thought only of the prostrate form before her, saw only a suf- 
fering creature, a dying penitent, as she realized that, for the first 
time in her life, she stood in the presence of death. She looked 
appealingly at her companion. He understood the mute query, 
so simple and yet so touchingly eloquent, which said: “Can no- 
thing be done for him?” and answered in the same voiceless lan- 
guage. 

She did not repeat the question ; she knew that it was beyond 
the power of human skill to call back the departing spirit, the 
dark circles about the eyes and mouth telling too plainly that the 
16 


234: 


MYKA. 


black giant had already laid his icy clutches upon him, and that 
the pious physician, foreseeing the end, would not mock his last 
moments with delusive hopes. Dissolution was inevitable, and 
there was nothing to do but to wait for it. 

Myra found the rigid restraint, which she felt it necessary to 
put upon her feelings, a fearful strain upon her nerves, as she 
gazed helplessly down upon the motionless form, her brain in a 
whirl and her presence of mind deserting her. The suspense was 
becoming insupportable when the eager eyes opened a second 
time upon her. 

If she had forgotten the promise with which he had allured her 
hither, it was evident that he had not. 

“Your casket!” he said, speaking quickly; “look under my 
head.” • ^ 

She did as he commanded, and drew it forth, whole and unin- 
jured. 

“Open it!” he continued, with increasing anxiety. 

She obeyed, in silence. All was as she had expected, every 
precious trifle as when she had last seen it, and a sealed letter ad- 
dressed to Miss Ray. But dear as were the former, she could feel 
no pleasure in their restoration at the forfeiture of life. 

“The ring!” he demanded, in a voice slightly raised by excite- 
ment, and tremulous with emotion; “how came you with it?” 

“Elmer — ” she began, with an effort. 

“Yes, yes,” he burst forth, interrupting her; “I know — 1 heard.. 
Boor boy, he deserved a better fate! You know her — Bertha?” 
he inquired, hurriedly. 

“Yes,” said Myra, her heart in her throat. 

“You will send it to her? — the letter? I could not bear to die 
until I had told her all — could not bear for her to think me so — 
so — ” Exhaustion forbade his flnishing the sentence. 

“Yes, I promise;” interpreting the pleading look he bent upon 
her. 

“You are an angel!” she heard him murmur, “like her — Ber- 
tha! Dow beautiful my darling was,” he rambled on, incohe- 
rently. 

The kind-hearted doctor had stationed himself near his pillow^ 
from which post he watched him compassionately, but the dying 
man hardly noticed him. He saw nothing but the slight, girlish 


A TEST OF COURAGE AND FIDELITY. 


235 


figure, and the pale, agitated face, in which he read only mourn- 
ful pity, and which his fading eyes never quitted — as though 
they would devour her in the intensity of his gaze. 

“Tell me,” he said, after a brief pause, in a deep, hollow tone, 
that went to the very depths of her heart, “ is there no hope for 
me? Am I utterly lost?” 

“ 1 ^ 0 ,” she answered, confidently, and then hesitated, finding the 
office of confessor a painful one, feeling that the fate of an im- 
mortal soul depended, perhaps, upon her words, and appalled at 
the responsibility that rested upon her; “not if you are sorry that 
you have been wicked, and ask God to forgive you,” she added, 
solemnly. 

He regarded her for awhile steadily and intently. His expres- 
sion softened, and something like a tear glistened upon the dark 
lashes. 

“You look so young, and beautiful and innocent,” he faltered, 
at length, “You must be good — like /if r! You do not despise 
me?” 

There was in the appeal mingled tenderness, anguish and en- 
treaty, as though his final doom hung upon her answer; and to 
Myra, whose emotions already threatened the severe self-control 
she had so far exorcised, it was too much. 

“No; from my heart I pity you,” she replied brokenly. 

He extended his thin hand imploringly toward her. She took 
it in her own and pressed her soft palm to the cold, damp brow. 

“ I shall die easier for having seen you,” he whispered, faintly. 
“I have finished now — 1 am almost gone. Sing to me!” 

A stranger to such scenes, she was embarrassed by the unex- 
pected request; but her moral courage rising to meet the emer- 
gency, she choked back the rising sobs, and summoning her voice, 
began a pathetic little air which she remembered to have heard 
Miss Kay sing sometimes. It was a venture, but she determined 
to try the experiment. 

It seemed a familiar one, for it acted like a spell ; and so quietly 
and gradually the spirit took its fiight, that he seemed lulled to 
rest like a tired child. When the strain ceased, he lay as a sleep- 
ing infant upon its mother’s lap ; but the eyes were fixed, and the 
pulse was forever still. 

Woman’s intuition is often superior to man’s reasoning, as was 


236 


MYRA. 


proved in the present instance. Myra’s convictions were verified. 
The fellow who had entered her room by stealth and purloined 
her ornaments was one of the same gang that had fallen upon 
Fairfield in his midnight wanderings through the Louisiana 
swamp, more than five years before. In accordance with their 
usual custom, they, among other valuable miscellany, had been 
passed over to their chief, who, by dint of his wit and the power 
he had acquired over them through the firmness and decision of a 
higher intellect, which ever awes and sways the vulgar herd, had 
escaped their vengeance for his suspected treachery upon the oc- 
casion alluded to, and who, recognizing the ring with which were 
associated such harrowing memories, had naturally been impelled 
to inquire the name and locality of the person in whose possession 
it had been found. The former he was unable to ascertain, but 
the latter he learned accidentally, and obeying the dictates of his 
better nature, he had deserted his band, resolving to contrive an 
interview at every hazard and abide the consequences; when, ere 
he had reached his destination, he had been smitten by disease, and 
in the belief that his end was fast approaching, had penned those 
hurried lines, and trusting to chance, credulity and humanity, had 
managed to drag himself to this mean shelter, to die as wretches 
must ! 

Thus ends the double tragedy, which is, at the same time, a 
striking example of the power of early teachings and the lasting 
infiuence of a pure and lovely woman. 

Dr. Early had the remains quietly interred in the village cem- 
etery, and it was never known outside of his immediate family 
that the contrite burglar was Martin Willis. 

Myra, who was doomed to experience that day yet’ another 
shock, was thankful for the distance that necessitated her break- 
ing the melancholy intelligence to her quondam teacher episto- 
larily^ so that she might be spared at least the distress of witness- 
ing the grief which she knew the disclosure would occasion her, 
although she felt that, the first storm over, it must be a relief. 

The exertion, excitement and agitation of the morning had 
completely overcome her, and she had retired to her room with a 
nervous headache when the evening’s mail was brought to her. 
A letter directed in Lionel’s peculiar, but bold and legible hand, 
changed the current, but not the tenor of her thoughts. Its per- 


A TEST OF COURAGE AND FIDELITY. 


23T 


usal was unnecessary to acquaint her with its mournful contents; 
the broad black band upon the envelope told its own sad story ; 
yet she did read it many times. 

Yes! she too was dead — that aged and loved mother, for whom 
he had sacrificed wealth and fame, and whose comfort and plea- 
sure had been, since then, the study of his life. She was no more; 
the sands of life had run its little hour; another disembodied soul 
had passed from earth, and flown away to join the spirit band of 
the city invisible. The one care of his youth and solace of ma- 
ture!’ years had been wrested from him, and he was left alone. 
Alone ! with no one to comfort, no one to cheer, no one to love 
him ! 

She wept! not less for his affliction than for the loss of the 
kind friend who had been to her a mother in the dark days of her 
treble bereavement. 

“Poor Lionel!” she sobbed, “that he, who has so suffered and 
labored and lived for others, should be left tlius forlorn !” 

Suddenly and impulsively she raised the letter to her lips. For 
an instant her cheek glowed like a crimson flower; then, as though 
startled and frightened at her own act, she let it drop from her 
Angers as suddenly, as though she had committed, or was about 
to commit, a crime. 

Her color came and went, as it ever did with intense feeling. 

“I wrong no one,” she said aloud, as though denying the charge 
of some unseen and silent accuser. 

Her self-command, her self-respect in a moment asserted itself; 
her face regained its wonted calm, her cheek its natural hue. 

“What am I doing? what am I saying?” she asked herself se- 
verely, as picking it up, she laid it quietly aside, and then with a 
sigh : “ He is orily a brother.” 

It was a sad sweet task to pen the words of hope and consola- 
tion for which he thirsted, to lift him from the abysm into which 
this great sorrow had plunged him ; and treasured was the reply 
in which he called her his “ dear little sister,” and thanked her for 
her sympathy and affection. 


238 


MYRA. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

A CHAPTEE OE SUEPRISES. 

T he world is a mighty battle-field, where vice and virtue are 
continually at war, and Tirrie the righteous umpire that 
awards the palm of victory. 

The warm delicious breath of June had kissed the spring blos- 
soms into whitening grain and blushing fruits, and Myra, after 
much persuasion, had been prevailed on to visit once more her 
native state. Miss Ray, to whom she now seemed bound by a 
new tie, expressed an earnest wish to see lier. Myra had made a 
shrewd guess when at school, that it was not necessity that had 
driven her from a social world to which she would have been an 
ornament. Her father was a man of considerable means, and had 
left her at his death, which followed liard upon the tragedy of her 
youth, amply provided for. But wealth and admiration alone 
could not satisfy the cravings of her woman’s soul ; her parents 
both dead and her sisters all married, there being no one to op- 
pose her choice, she liad left soon afterwards a beautiful and sump- 
tuous home, seeking self-inflicted and useful labor as the only re- 
medy for 

“ The dreary void, 

The leafless desert of the mind, 

The waste of feelings unemploy ’d.'^ 

But notwithstanding lier aversion to residing there, the paternal 
mansion had been, through all tlie intervening years, kept up in 
quite its former state, having been left in charge of the old house- 
keeper and a few faithful servants, who creditably sustained the 
family dignity. 

Such was the place to which she invited her. Since the conca- 
tenation of calamities alluded to, she had felt no inclination to 
revisit it; but had been suddenly seized with a desire to see the 
old place again, and designed spending her vacation there, pro- 


A CHAPTER OF SURPRISES. 


239 


Tided she was favored with her joiing friend’s society. She had 
never spoken ot these things before, had never revealed her real 
circumstances, since, to have done so, would have been to divulge 
a painful secret. She dwelt upon the natural beauties of the dis- 
trict, and described the pleasant hours they would spend together; 
^he had set her heart on having her with her, and would accept 
no excuse. 

This was natural. It miglit be expected that she would wish 
to see one who had been, not only a witness to the last hours, 
but the comforter of one whose memory, vile as she had been 
forced to believe him, had left the lacerated heart-strings forever 
broken — chords that would never more vibrate with love’s respon- 
sive thrill ; of course tliere were questions to ask which could not 
be satisfactorily answered by letter — questions of words and looks 
and tones, and such exquisite details, untliought and undreamt of 
except by those who truly love. It was natural that she should 
wish to wander again among the familiar haunts of her girlhood, 
rendered intolerable by association while she remembered him as 
brutal and treacherous. Myra could understand and appreciate, 
Iiaving experienced feelings somewhat similar, and the pupil would 
fain console the teaclier as the teacher had erst consoled the pupil. 

Was not she too pining for a sight of her old home? — a home 
which, though no longer legall}^ hers, must ever claim that place 
in her affections so long as the earthly remains of those who had 
bestowed the life which she had at times been selfish and wicked 
enough to esteem a baleful gift, slept beneatli its sod. She sighed 
for the scenes so dear to her heart — those scenes of vanished joys 
painted in living colors on memory’s varied page, — here a gilded 
portraiture traced by the roseate finger of life’s morning; here, 
in the noonday of pride and bliss, a cloudless sky suddenly over- 
cast, the thickening clouds and electric flashes portentous of the 
threatening storm ; and last of all, the simple tale of life’s direst 
woe, stamped in sable characters and blotted with an orphan’s 
tears. And the conciousness that the fulfilment of this long- 
cherished hope now lay in her own will, appealed to her heart 
more effectually than a volume of elaborate and unanswerable 
arguments. 

Henrietta was not less importunate. She pictured life at Ivy 
Cottage in glowing language, growing eloquent as she expatiated 


210 


MYEA. 


on its manifold attractions, offering a catalogue of inducernentSy 
each irresistible to one willing to be persuaded. 

Then there were other lures, still, that invited her to the land of 
her birth — lures that she would confess to no living creature, that 
she dare not confess even to herself; ties other than of friendshipy 
probabilities that she repelled impatiently whenever they obtruded 
(for obtrude they would) upon lier thoughts. 

On the day of departure the little girls clung to her tearfully, 
their amiable mother folded her in a warm embrace, and her 
friendly patron’s cordial clasp left her fingers tingling with the lin- 
gering pressure, as they bade her a reluctant farewell, their grief at 
losing her alleviated only by the assurance that her absence was 
merely temporary, and would not be long. After a little while 
she would return to them. What other home had she in all the- 
world but this? If life and health were spared her, she would 
certainly come back. 

There had been many changes in B and the adjacent coun- 

try during her four year’s expatriation. Some of the older citi- 
zens had gone to their final rest, others had moved away, and 
strangers supplied their places. But the most sensational event 
of all was Henry Sims’ marriage, and I trust the reader will be- 
pleased to recognize in the bride the youthful^ naive and confid- 
ing Miss Janet Philips. 

How did it come to pass? Why, in the most natural way im- 
aginable. Having occasion to visit C a few months before^ 

he had met with Oscar, with whom he had a slight acquaintance, 
and who, with his accustomed civility, had invited him to call at 
the cottage. 

His pleasure and appreciation being evinced by a speedy com- 
pliance, his sportive host, who had not forgotten his treachery in 
his professed friendship for Myra, partly in a spirit of retaliation 
and partly for the pure love of a joke (this promising to be a rich 
one), mentioned casually, in the course of the evening, that Mis& 
Janet Philips was worth a fortune. 

At the word “ fortune ” Mr. Henry’s eyes began to dilate de- 
lightedly, and his voice, despite his wonted caution, betrayed ea- 
gerness, as he proceeded to make some artless inquiries concern- 
ing the fortunate fair. 

The gay jester, noting the effect of his quiz, with a significant 


A CHAl>TER OF SURPRISES. 


241 


wink to his merry consort, went on to state, that slie had been 
spending much of her time for the past few years with a wealthy 
uncle, recently deceased, with whom she had been a great favorite,. 
dropping vague hints which led his guest to suppose that she was 
the lucky heiress to the bulk of his magnificent estates. 

Eager to possess himself of this splendid prize (which perfectly 
reconciled her thirty one years), his weak and mercenary victim 
lost no time in seeking an introduction, which was followed up by 
the most persistent and assiduous attentions. He proposed in form,, 
after a brief acquaintance, and was graciously accepted by the lan- 
guishing maiden. 

Fearing delay, lest he should be supplanted by some successful 
rival, — of whom he was sure he had more than a score, — with the 
anxiety and impatience of an ardent lover, he hastened the nuptials,, 
carefully avoiding, in the meantime, anything that could have the 
appearance of inquiring further, into her finances, lest he should 
wound the sensitive heart of his tender dulcinea, wrecking, thereby, 
his brilliant prospects. 

So it fell out that he remained in blissful ignorance of the im- 
posture until after the honey-moon, when he discovered, to his 
horror, that slie was not worth a penny ! 

To rush off post haste to Ivy Cottage and vent his spleen on 
‘‘the knave who had played this villainous trick upon him” was 
his first thought, and no sooner conceived than acted upon. 

That facetious gentleman met him with a cool complaisance 
that completely shocked him out of his studied noncommittal- 
ism and habitual prudence. 

“ I thought you told me that that woman was a fortune ?” lie 
demanded, in a high key, with all the bitterness of disappointment 
and piquancy of suppressed ire, declining the proffered chair and 
entering upon the subject without preamble. 

“ And so she is,” replied the other quietly. 

“That’s false. She is not worth a penny!” excitedly. 

“You don’t know what you are talking about, man,” with the 
same exasperating coolness; “all women are fortunes — in them- 
selves! Why, I wouldn’t exchange my wife for the wealth of the 
Indies!” 

“ She is not worth a cent,” reiterated the unhappy bridegroom,, 
fairly foaming with rage. 


242 


MYRA. 


“I can’t answer for her cents^ but not much sense^ truly, else 
she would never have married Henry Sims,” was the withering re- 
joinder. 

“I’ll get a divorce at onceT his anger getting more ungovern- 
able and his accents sharper. 

“What? Hot sick of your bargain? Your fervent devotion 
has not changed to repugnance so soon, surely,” with sarcastic 
emphasis and well-feigned astonishment. 

“I’ll hisist upon a separation,” ignoring these equivocal insinu- 
ations. 

“ I am afraid you will find some difficulty in making out a case,” 
observed the imperturbable Oscar. 

“I say that you have lied!” shrieked the poor wretch, desper- 
ately, losing all self-control, heedless alike of words or conse- 
quences. “I say that you are a villain — a low, contemptible, ly- 
ing villain I” 

Oscar looked down upon him as an elephant might upon a mos- 
quito that kept a great buzzing about his ears, but was unable to 
penetrate his leathery hide with its delicate sting. 

“If you were a man I would strike you,” he said carelessly, 
“but I would scorn to hurt so weak a thing. 

“Go home, my friend,” he added, wdth a sneer; “go^ back to 
your love-lorn lady, who is, I doubt not, impatient fordier lord’s 
return. Love and cherish her, ‘for better for worse, for richer for 
poorer, in sickness and in health,’ as you promised at the marriage 
altar. You cannot revoke your plighted vow — ^yon have noth- 
ing to allege against her. There was no mention of dollars and 
cents in the ceremony, I wot. Submit with what grace you can. 
You have brought it on yourself and must accept your fate. 

“And now — go I” in a tone that could not be mistaken, “leave 
my premises this instant, and I warn you to beware, in future, 
how you insult a gentleman in his own house. 

“Go!” peremptorily, seeing him hesitate, “and never come to 
me again with your puerile threats, wrongs and repinings. If 
you have made a mistake, take my advice and keep your dissatis- 
faction and ill-temper to yourself. It will save you some trouble 
and a world of mortification.” 

And he went, like a detected thief; this keen ridicule and undis- 
guised contempt being more stunning than a blow. 


A CHAPTER OF SURPRISES. 


243 


The wily fortune-hunter had gotten his just deserts. Having 
‘‘married in haste” he was left to “repent at leisure;” condemned 
to a life of falsehood and self -reprehension, forced to lament in 
secret over frustrated schemes, with inward imprecations on his 
own folly ; bound to a woman he despised, eight years his senior, 
with neither ^muth nor amiability to redeem her plain features and 
very ordinary accomplishments. 

These interesting details Henrietta had recounted in a recent 
letter, in a style eminently her own. 

Mr. Rodolphus had never ventured to launcli his barque a sec- 
ond time upon amorous seas, at the mercy of fortune’s treach- 
erous waves and the more fickle breezes of feminine favor. Hav- 
ing learned from his brother’s miscalculations the fallacy of ap- 
pearances, and from his own experience that Plntus was a winged 
deity and sometimes took flight, he had abandoned all idea of 
matrimony and given himself up to the blessedness of perpetual 
bachelorliood. 

Jerome, who was on the high road to distinction, had been 
again enslaved by Love’s grand passion, finding a worthy object 
in fair-liaired Maud — like Henrietta in mind and heart — an ar- 
rangement entirely agreeable to all concerned. 

There was no necessity for Myra’s passing through B ; it did 

not lie in her line of travel; there was no real reason for turning 
out of her way, except that she could not bear to go so near, with- 
out allowing herself tlie gratification of seeing dear old Yiolet 
Bank for perhaps the last time. 

It was in the early afternoon when the village spires came in 
siglit. There was no one to meet her; she had no reason to ex- 
pect anything else, having apprised no one of her intentions; and 
yet, she could not help hoping — pshaw ! liow silly she was. 

She had thought of acquainting Lionel with her purpose, re- 
questing him to be in attendance on her arrival. A year ago she 
would have felt no hesitancy, in doing so, but was now deterred 
by a feeling of diffidence she could not explain and would not ac- 
knowledge. 

Her plan was quickly decided upon. She would hardly be re- 
cognized under the thick veil that completely concealed her fea- 
tures; she would discover herself to no one, but go straight to 
Violet Bank, where she would spend the night, and resume her 


244 


MYRA. 


journey on the morrow. She had no idea who were the present 
occupants, but felt sure that, were they friends or foes, tliey could' 
not have the heart to deny one night’s entertainment to the daughter 
of him who had never refused hospitality to the needy or friend- 
less. 

A number of passengers got off, some stopping over, others 
changing cars, jostling and grumbling; and among so many would- 
be important personages, it was not likely that such a quiet, insig- 
nificant little individual would be remarked. She slipped out of 
the crowd unobserved, and declining a hack, walked briskly to- 
ward the village. The streets at that hour were well-nigh de- 
serted, and the solitary pedestrian she occasionally encountered 
passed her by unnoticed. She slackened her pace when she had 
passed the suburbs, and as she strolled slowly down the familiar drive,. 
pausing to look fondly upon each well-remembered object, loiter- 
ing on the bridge and gazing dreamily down upon the little river 
suggestive of such mournful reminiscences, she was moved to tears- 
at the retrospection sad and sweet; but when the green steep rose 
before her, her strength forsook her, and sinking upon the stone 
step, she waited for some minutes, gathering courage to go on. 

The intermediate years of her life were obliterated; she was 
a child again, awakened from some dreadful niglitmare; this, and 
this only, was her true home; she looked up expectantly, as though 
she thought to see the forms of her loved ones come forward to 
soothe and caress her. 

Summoning up her resolution, she ascended. Here the contrast 
struck her most painfully. The buildings were all in perfect re- 
pair, and the grounds in the nicest order; but the closed doors and 
darkened windows pronounced it tenantless. The full conscious- 
ness of the present overwhelmed her; she thought of the prodi- 
gal son, only there was no feast prepared for her, no music and 
dancing to welcome her back, feeling like some lonely exile re- 
turned to his father-land, who sees a show of joy and mirth around 
him, but no joy and mirth for him. She wandered about tho 
yard and through the park in search of some sign of life, but 
could find nothing — not a dog, nor a cat, nor a fowl; all was silent 
and deserted. At a loss to account for these contradictory evi- 
dences, she w'ent finally to the garden, where she sauntered up and 
down the well-kept walks, plucking here and there a fiower, lin- 


A CHAPTER OF SURPRISES. 


24:5 


'gering tlioiightfnlly over each sad reminder, until she reached the 
mound where slumbered her dead. The soft grass offered a seat, 
the willow branches a canopy. Here she remained for a long time 
lost in recollections, how long, she did not know, until startled by 
a footstep near her, — startled as she had been once before in that 
same retreat, although how differently occupied ! when the lost 
had come back to her. But great as was her surprise, it was not 
to be compared with that of the intruder. 

Another mourner had come to pay liis daily visit to that hal- 
lowed spot, all unthinking whom he would encounter there. He 
came to a sudden halt as he spied her; then stepping backward a 
few paces, stared at her in utter bewilderment, transfixed with 
amazement. 

She in turn stared back at him, not less confounded. 

Can I believe my eyes?’’ he said at length, like one in a dream, 
“or is it a gliost that I see?” it was more a soliloquy than a ques- 
tion. 

“It is not a ghost at all, but ray corporeal self,” replied the sup- 
posed wraith, finding at last her voice; “It is I, Myra,” approach- 
ing him with extended hand. 

He took it, but was far from being convinced. 

“Myra! you here? — impossible!” he ejaculated in the same so- 
liloquizing tone. “How did you get here? — where did you come 
fVom? — dropped from tlie clouds?” 

Myra explained. 

“And now,” she added, when she had finished, with something 
of her old playfulness, “ are you satisfied as to my materiality, or 
will you still persist in believing me a spectre?” 

“Almost,” he returned, recovering himself in a measure, but 
still incredulous. 

“I sliould have written — should have notified you,” she said 
apologetically. “1 am sorry that I surprised you.” 

“ Sorry that you surprised me !” he echoed in a changed voice, 
looking down upon her with unspeakable tenderness, “ would that 
my life were made up of such surprises.” 

Then followed a long conversation, involving mutual questions 
and explanations, which, being of little interest to the reader, we 
will just pass over, thus hastening the conclusion of this eventful 
narrative. 


246 


MYEA. 


* >i« * * * * * 

“Myra!” he said, when she had given an account of herself,, 
with a perceptible tremor in his low accents, “I told you once 
that I would never again distress you with the story of my love. 
I had meant to keep my promise — but all is so changed since then. 
I am so lonely, Myra ! I would not have you forget — I do not ask 
your love — I am content with what I already possess. Only give 
me the right to keep you from hardsliip — the right to protect — 
the right to make you happy. We are both alone: let us comfort 
each other!” 

A wonderful revolution was going on in Myra’s heart, as the 
words sunk deep into her soul, words that lulled her into quietude, 
like softest music. She did not deceive herself: she did not, and 
never could forget. But in looking back, she felt that, "but for 
that other dream — that dream of her childhood and not less ro- 
mantic girlhood — that ideal of her young imagination w^hich had 
precluded all others — she could not have hesitated in her answer 
when first he had poured into her ear that passionate recital of si- 
lent endurance and ardent hopes. She had seen, she had loved, 
she had lost ! It had been so bright, so troubled, so fleeting ! But 
in this, there was nothing to doubt, nothing to risk, nothing to 
fear, only confidence, peace and rest ! and she felt assured that 
he to whom he had been so generous while a sojourner in these 
beclouded regions of temporal mutability, and who now enjo3^ed 
the glory and blessedness of celestial things, could not envy this 
noble, unselfish spirit the mite of comfort he might extract from 
earthly blessings. As a cliild she had honored and trusted him, 
and with the maturer reflection of the woman, she knew that this 
quiet grave man had gained a hold upon her affections that time 
nor adversity could uproot — that his happiness was dearer ta 
her than life — that they could have no grief, no 303" apart. 

She would have told him this. She tried to speak, and failing, 
burst into tears. 

He no longer felt rebuked by ‘her agitation. He saw in it 
nothing of pain, nothing of reproach; her embarrassment — some- 
thing in her face — reassured him. 

“ It is not much that I ask — onl3^ the right to protect — the right 
to make you happy,” he plead, with reverential tenderness. 

“1^0, Lionel; no,” mastering her emotion and speaking with an 


A CHAPTER OF SURPRISES. 


247 


earnestness bordering on solemnity, ‘^not for that, but” — turning 
upon him a face irradiated by a deep, tranquil gladness, and lay- 
ing her own in the hand he hold out to her, “ but because I love 
you !” 

* ***** , 

They have a superstition in the East, that the spirits of the de- 
parted keep watch over their own graves, unseen by mortal eyes^ 
If true, what fervent benisons must these invisible guardians havc^ 
breathed over the rapt pair, who, in tlie first ecstatic mo- 
ments of new-found and unlooked-for happiness, feared to move 
or to speak, lest they should dissolve that blest union of the 
souls ! And as Myra sat gazing, as it were, into futurity, she saw 
— as we have seen on a summer’s sky — the reflection, more deli- 
cately tinted, but not less beauteous, of tlie too evanescently bril- 
liant symbol that had spanned the welkin of happier days; and 
when she left B , a few hours later, she did not go alone. 

Two years have passed, and the orphan’s sunny presence brightens, 
as in bj'-gone years, the ancestral halls. For it is at Violet Bank 
that we find her — the home of her fathers — a gift from Lionel on 
her marriage day. The unoccupied, but carefully preserved state 
in which she had found it, and which she was, at the time, unable 
to account for, was then explained. He had intended a glad sur- 
prise for her, and by redoubling his energies and practicing some 
self-denial, liad been enabled to redeem her rightful inheritance, 
and was only awaiting her birthday, tlien near at hand, for its 
presentation, when, as he teasingly tells her, she anticipated him, 
by a tacit suggestion of a less disinterested and more agreeable 
settlement. But gratifying as is the knowledge of this additional 
proof of his unparalleled generosity and matchless devotion, she 
likes it infinitely better as it is. She never returned to Texas as 
she promised, and though her friends were sorry to give her up, 
they could not be so selfish as not to rejoice in her happiness and 
good fortune; and Aunt Jemima, who has been restored to her 
former post of dignity and responsibility, declares that she can 
“depart in peace,” having lived to see the fulfilment of her 
fondest dreams. Lionel moves with a lighter step and wears a 
blither smile than have been his for many years, and, as the faith- 


^48 


MYRA. 


fill old domestic has remarked more tlian once, not without 
grounds, “’pears to get younger every day.” 

Myra is sitting alone in her favorite room, the dear cheerful, 
<30zy old library, one line autumn evening, indulging in the most 
pleasing of reveries, when stealing softly into the room, he lays 
a paper upon her lap, and with characteristic delicacy ,| quits the 
apartment. 

Glancing at the paragraph indicated, the too common heading: 

HORRIBLE SUICIDE,” aiid the abhorred name: “Charles H. 
McLyons,” send the color from her lips and a shudder through 
her frame. 

She tries to rally — tries to read through the long tedious columns, 
but she can not; it is too shocking. She only reads enough to 
learn that the world-honored homicide has taken his own life! — 
find that he died cursing his beautiful fiend of a wife, whom he 
exposed mercilessly, alleging that she was an accomplice in his 
crime, and no less guilty than he; inasmuch as she had led him on 
to vengeance, being an associate and abettor in his diabolic.al in- 
trigue; that she had never cared for him, but had married him 
through pique; that earth was a hell, and life no longer support- 
able. 

There was no witness, no proof against the latter, however, and 
this unsubstantiated accusation of an aberrant mind could have 
little weight in a court of justice. But the fair Circe had fallen 
in her own snare. Crushed by the publicity given to the charge, 
her vanity stung by her husband’s avowed hatred, and her con- 
science by the remorseful throes of a guilty soul, she had fled 
from her idol, the world, seeking refuge in a convent, where with 
penance and tears she might expiate the crimes (for they can be 
called by no other name) of her short career. 

Myra sits for some minutes shading her eyes with her hand to 
shut out the ghastly image which the words present, shuddering 
involuntarily, and wisliing she had not read them, when a well- 
known voice says in her ear: “Myra!” 

He has entered so noiselessly that she gives a slight start as she 
looks up. 

“Myra!” he repeats softly, not wishing to break in upon her 
•abruptly. 

The hideous spectacle is driven before the sound like the chill 


A CHAPTER OF SURPRISES. 


249 


twilight of early dawn before the rising sun, bringing wamth and 
light where cold and darkness had been, feeling, as she does, that 
no possible ill can befall her when he is near; and out of her con- 
sternation arises a thanksgiving for her own happy lot. 

Yes, Myra is contented; and why? She has grown to be a 
devout little optimist; and believing that all things are ordered 
for some grand and wise end, has learned to enjoy the blessings 
and accept unmurmuringly the trials that are sent upon her. The 
ungrateful heart has been likened to ‘‘the sand of the desert,” 
yielding no return for the favors showered upon it: the grateful 
heart is like a smiling oasis, and Love the perpetual fount that 
keeps it fresh and green ; nor can discord creep in where perfect 
confidence and innocence abide. Happiness, that capricious 
sprite, a little lower than her sister Bliss, too pure for earth, 
too fickle for heaven, escaped from Paradise, and doomed to wan- 
der through our sublunary vales, finding at last a home akin to 
her native bowers, has flitted here, and folded her weary pinions. 


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